


Dreaming The Future

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, F/M, PG-13 - Blue Cortina, Time Period: 1981-2006 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-18
Updated: 2009-01-05
Packaged: 2019-01-20 19:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12440061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: It's a while since the car bomb killed her parents: Alex Drake is still having nightmares, but Gene is having dreams of a different kind.  Angsty time travel sexiness ahoy!





	1. Spilled Milk

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

  
Author's notes: Gene tells Alex about his rather strange dream.  


* * *

CID was in semi darkness. The checkerboard ceiling lights were all switched off and only the glow from Gene Hunt’s desk lamp was visible, throwing shadows of the DCI on the wall behind him as he sat poring over long-overdue paperwork. His head rested on the knuckles of his right hand, and in his left he lazily spun a tumbler of single malt.

 

 

He glanced at his watch. 1 a.m.

 

 

He sighed. “Flamin’ ell,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. He often stayed late in the office, coming back there after a few drinks at Luigi’s with the team. There was little to go home to really, no marriage bed into which he could crawl and leave the Manc Lion behind. And so he found himself, ensconced in his den, staring at his reflection in the redundant computer screen.

 

 

His gaze fell on an empty glass, sitting on top of a pile of manila folders. He and his DI had shared a drink earlier that day: she had fainted in his office and he had offered the usual remedy from his cabinet. He remembered how he had watched in horror as her face turned a deathly white, a light sweat breaking on her brow as her legs crumpled beneath her. Her pupils wide and breath shallow, she had called out a jumble of words, only one of which he could make out. “Molly”.

 

 

He had leapt out from behind his desk and caught her, gently lowering her body to the floor and yelling for Shaz to fetch a cold flannel. Moments later, Alex Drake had come to, but her eyes were hazy and her hands shook as he helped her gingerly into a chair. When she was strong enough, he had deposited her at her flat with strict instructions to stay there and rest.

 

 

This hadn’t been the first time either. In the weeks since her unconventional arrival in his department he had witnessed many occasions when he wondered for her health and indeed, her sanity. But she was a strong and brilliant woman, so full of passion. He secretly loved these moments when, in flashes of blazing anger, her hazel eyes would spark and her chin would jut out in defiance. She gave him a run for his money and it inflamed him.

 

 

He could hear distant noise from the front desk, where the night shift coppers were dealing with the odd drunk and disorderly between crosswords and cups of tea. Suddenly he heard the CID door open and watched through the blinds as a dark figure made its way across the office to the small kitchen. Then came the sound of cupboards being opened and closed.

 

 

Gene pushed his chair back and walked out into the office. “Hello?” he called out in the direction of the kitchen. He stepped around the corner to see Alex’s posterior sticking out from behind the fridge door. In tight denim, it really was a sight to behold. Gene leaned in the doorway, admiring the view.

 

 

Rummaging done with, the rest of Alex’s body appeared; she held a bottle of milk in one hand. Startled by the sight of her DCI in the half-light, she yelped and stepped backwards, the bottle falling from her hand and shattering on the floor. A pool of white crept silently between them.

 

 

“For God’s sake Gene!” Alex gasped, “What the hell are you doing standing there?” She had clearly not long awoken, her curls were relaxed and her eye make-up slightly smudged.

 

 

“I could ask much the same of you Bolly! Creeping about in my office in the middle of the night in the dark!” His voice was gruff, but he wasn’t angry. Quite the opposite in fact – she looked beautiful and was a very welcome sight in the drudgery of his sleepless night.

 

 

Alex turned and switched the kettle on. She opened a cupboard and took out a second cup, placing it on the counter next to the one already sitting there. She faced Gene and raised her eyebrows.

 

 

“Yeah, ta” he said.

 

 

Alex popped a tea bag into the cup and leaned back on the edge of the sink, parting her legs slightly to steady herself. This movement did not go unnoticed by her DCI, who stifled a groan at the thoughts now invading his mind. “So?” he questioned.

 

 

“I woke up on my couch in the middle of a rather gruesome nightmare and couldn’t get back to sleep… I don’t suppose a triple measure of Scotch is the best cure for a fainting fit after all,” she sighed. A pause. “Anyway, I figured I might as well come across here and do something productive with my time…” her sentence trailed off, as she was suddenly struck by how handsome he looked. His face had a dishevelled weariness about it, his dark blonde hair slipping over one side of his forehead, untrimmed sideburns and his trademark pout. Her eyes rested on his lips for a moment longer than they should have, then fell lower to his loosened tie and undone shirt buttons.

 

 

Gene watched her. He thought to himself at this very moment she looked like a star that was about to burn out and fall in on itself. He wanted desperately to touch her, as if somehow that would make her alive again.

 

 

“What about you?” Alex handed him a cup of black tea. “How come you’re not with the others at Luigi’s? They were singing ABBA when I came by…” Her eyes twinkled and she held a hand up to her mouth to unsuccessfully suppress a giggle. “Y’know, I have my doubts about our Ray…”

 

 

“Christ, that’s all we need!” Gene grumbled.

 

 

He slurped his tea then clutched the mug in both hands. “Look Bols, are you okay?” Gene looked at the floor. “I mean, earlier…. erm, that didn’t seem like a… er, normal fainting.” He tried, and failed, to conceal the tender concern in his voice.

 

 

Alex frowned slightly. “Gene,” she began. There was a slight tremor that made him look up immediately. She paused, then let out a long sigh. “You really wouldn’t believe me… what’s the use?”

 

 

His eyes met hers. He wanted to push it, to get to the bottom of this mystery. He longed to know why Alex seemed like she came from another planet half the time and why she had requested a transfer to his branch, leaving her daughter behind. But he didn’t press further. All in good time, he thought. Lighten the mood Gene… Hmm. He finally spoke. “I s’pose we should clear this up eh?”

 

 

Alex handed him a cloth from the sink behind her, watching him as he knelt and mopped up the milk and picked up the shards of glass. She gazed at the top of his head, fighting back inappropriate thoughts. She felt safe with him, but she knew he could be dangerous and this excited her.

 

 

Gene’s eyes travelled the length of Alex’s body as he stood up again. He placed the glass in the bin then moved beside her to rinse the cloth in the sink. She didn’t move out of his way and he didn’t ask her to. Tiny electric shocks waged war on her as she felt his warmth next to her and caught his familiar scent of cigarillos and Christmas-gift aftershave.

 

 

“You know I dreamt the strangest thing th’other night Bolly.” Gene said, as he washed and dried his hands.

 

 

Alex stuck out her jaw. She was curious as to where this was going.

 

 

“I don’t usually remember dreams. Hell, I’m normally too ‘alf-cut to ‘ave any,” he added as he hung the towel back in its place “But this one were really… odd.”

 

 

He was still standing right next to her, leaning with his left hand on the counter. His face was close to hers, his voice low, as though he was about to say something he was a little ashamed of. He half-smiled at her. “Maybe your psychiatry bollocks can get to the bottom of it.”

 

 

Alex opened her mouth to correct him, but realised he was winding her up deliberately. She pursed her lips. “Go on…”

 

 

“I were ‘ere in London, but it was… I dunno, some ‘ow different …”

 

 

The DI watched him with interest.

 

 

He continued, “All the cars were silver and black. Well, I mean there was the odd white one, the odd red one. But mostly silver and black. And they were all rounded. Not like old fashioned cars, or modern ones, er, I mean… aaah, bollocks.”

 

 

“What happened in the dream?”

 

 

“Well, nothing much. It was more the feel of it.” He was aware he was sounding like a right poof now. He moved back from Alex slightly. “All the people were talking, but not to each other. They had earpieces, like, I dunno, pilots. And tiny white boxes in their hands with wires going into their ears.”

 

 

Alex’s eyes widened as Gene almost perfectly described iPods. They wouldn’t be invented for another 30 years.

 

 

“Please go on Gene…”

 

 

He started to smile slightly. “Well there was one funny moment. Some twonk, dressed up like Batman ‘ad climbed up onto Buckingham Palace. Plod were in a right state.”

 

 

By now, Alex’s heart was racing… she knew exactly what he was talking about. A publicity stunt in 2007. How could Gene have dreamt that? This was a new twist in her coma-induced subconscious world, she thought. She wanted to know more.

 

 

“What did London look like?” Her voice shook a little and Gene noticed. He looked concerned.

 

 

“Bols, I dunno. It was clean. The air was clean, the river was… clean. Forget about it, it was just a stupid dream.” He moved closer to her again. Alex looked at him. Our connection is deepening. She had known for some time now, since that terrible day she’d had to witness her parent’s death and her own abandonment all over again. The verbal sparring and drunken flirting had continued, but then there was something more. And now? He was dreaming her future.

 

 

His heart was beating faster now. If ever there was a moment he wanted to kiss her it was now, but he was unsure if he was reading it all wrong. She looked tired and vulnerable before him and there was a question in her eyes he knew he could never answer. He would leave now and go home, tell her to do the same. He made to move away from her.

 

 

Alex watched him. She knew he would not have the answers to all the millions of ifs and hows and whys in her head, but he was the most real thing she had right now. She saw the tiniest glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes, swiftly followed by the stoicism she knew would make him walk away from her if she didn’t stop him.

 

 

As he moved apart from her, she instinctively reached out a hand and clasped it around his wrist. “Gene…”

 

 

He looked down at his arm. He looked at her fingers holding on to him and his stomach lurched as though he was standing on the edge of a very tall building. His mind raced and yet words would not come to him. He clenched his jaw and slipped his wrist from her grasp, sliding the palm of his hand under hers and lacing their fingers together. He suddenly felt he had come home.

 

 

Alex swallowed hard and in happy defeat asked him, “Will you stay with me tonight?”


	2. Two Worlds Collide

  
Author's notes: Gene and Alex make love and the visions get stronger  


* * *

Luigi’s was in silence as the two detectives made their way, hand in hand, across the road. The autumn night was damp and chill: under the orange glow of a streetlight, the Quattro sat, beaded with raindrops and stripped of its colour. Long shadows moved across it as Alex and Gene passed by. As the restaurant was closed, they had to turn the corner and go up the main staircase.

 

 

When they were inside the flat, Alex turned on the table lamp and sat down on the couch. She took off her white leather jacket and boots and, curling her feet up under her, leaned back on the cushions.

 

 

“I’m just gonna… um,” Gene mumbled, nodding his head in the direction of the bathroom. Alex smiled and slowly closed her eyes. As he walked past the kitchen, Gene glanced at the clock – it was now after two thirty in the morning and he was very tired. He remembered that the sofa in Luigi’s flat was comfy enough, but then again, he had crashed onto it in a drunken stupor. Regardless, he looked forward to resting his body.

 

 

Gene stared at his reflection. He doused his face with cool water and thought hard. He was torn: on the one hand he wanted to walk through and take Alex in his arms; to seek access to her inner world; to reassure her that she was safe. But he knew there was something else: that he was close to giving up the fight to conceal his desire for her. The playful flirting had taken him as far as he could and now, with alarming frequency, came thoughts of her naked body entwined with his in passionate embrace. He knew he wasn’t fooling himself that there was lust in the way she looked at him but… well, after a few glasses of red he knew it wasn’t necessarily just him. There was a sudden rise of jealousy as he remembered her extolling the virtues of her night with the ‘Thatcherite wanker’. He swallowed it down quickly and turned to open the bathroom door.

 

 

On the couch meanwhile, Alex had drifted into a light sleep, fighting through her jumbled thoughts. Gene in 2007, an astral visitor in a strange time – the notion would have been laughable were it not so confusing. She hadn’t told him about the nightmare she’d been having earlier on, before she went across to CID. She was back on the riverside, facing down Arthur Layton - only this time, her father in his deathly clown mask was standing behind the gunman, holding Molly in his arms. She had awoken, crying, calling for Gene to help her. As she sat trembling, she had wished so much he had been there that day. An armed bastard, she half smiled to herself – Layton wouldn’t have stood a chance.

 

 

She felt safe now, knowing he was near her. The unspoken desire between them, however, put her slightly on edge. Alex wanted so much to be close to him, to feel his weight and the steady beat of his heart against her. She wondered if she could keep up her pretence of wry indifference any longer. If I see that pout one more time I will surely kiss him.

 

 

Gene closed the bathroom door quietly and stepped through to the living room. He watched Alex for a moment, marvelling at her peaceful beauty – he didn’t wish to disturb her but he knew she would be far more comfortable in her bed. He moved towards her and crouching by the sofa, softly said her name. Alex moaned a little. Her eyes didn’t open but, like a small child, she reached out an arm and placed it around Gene’s neck. Gently, he slid his arms underneath her and lifted her up. She nuzzled her face against his cheek and clasped her arm tighter, holding onto him as he carried her through to her room.

 

 

In Alex’s bedroom, the venetian blinds were half open: beams from outside split the room into dark and light as he made his way to the bed, lowering her languid body as carefully as he could onto the red duvet. He stood for a moment, debating whether or not to remove her clothes, eventually deciding that the sight of her in only her underwear was really not what he needed right now. The feeling of her breath on his neck as he carried her had already almost been his undoing.

 

 

He turned on his heel, fighting the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her awake, and began to make his way to his bed on the sofa. He’d reached the bedroom door before a small voice said, “Don’t leave me, please.”

 

 

It was all the invitation he needed. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his boots and socks off. Slowly, he removed his tie and wrapped it around his fist. Alex placed her hand on the small of his back, stroking him through his shirt. He turned and looked at her over his shoulder, his mouth dry at the look on her face.

 

 

Alex shifted over, her back to him - taking his hand, she wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled his body close to hers. He curled around her; conscious he was hard against her and trying to calm himself in his mind. They needed to sleep now, he knew that and he was just thankful they were this close. He moved his head beside hers on the pillow, her soft curls surrounded him in the clean scent of berries: he gently kissed her neck, dragging his lips across her skin and feeling her shiver a little. Her hand held his tighter and he stroked her with his thumb, their grip gradually loosening as sleep claimed them both. The nightmares stayed away.

 

 

It was 6 am when Alex woke, the pale yellow sun fell on the pillow beside her and she reached a hand to her eyes, rousing Gene with the movement. Almost without waking, he lifted his arm, allowing her to wriggle round to face him. She lay for like this for a while, gazing at his closed eyes; taking in the details of his rugged features. His eyelashes are so long, she thought. His lips were slightly parted, inviting a kiss. Bravely, Alex leaned forward and softly placed her mouth on his.

 

 

Immediately Gene responded with enthusiasm, their mouths moved together for several minutes before he opened his eyes and broke their kiss. He smiled shyly at her, “Mornin’ Bolly.”

 

 

Alex smiled back. She took her left hand and stroked his face, enjoying the feeling of his stubble on the pad of her thumb.

 

 

“Here you are,” she breathed.

 

 

He turned his face and kissed her palm. “Yes, here I am.” He glanced down where they lay, still on top of the duvet, still fully clothed. “Looking to all intents and purposes as though I’ve been dragged through an ’edge bloody backwards,” He murmured, referring to his crumpled shirt and trousers. His feet felt like ice.

 

 

There was silence for what seemed like an age. They were both trying to gauge the situation, foolishly using their heads instead of their hearts. There was really no denying the passion in that good-morning kiss, as was evidenced by the growing heat between Alex’s legs and the obvious beginnings of an erection for Gene.

 

 

Alex broke the silence first. “DCI Hunt, “ she whispered, “What are we doing here?” She continued, taking a deep breath. “ I mean, I have to be honest here, I don’t know how much longer I can lie here next to you without making love to you.” She bit her lip, a little shocked at her own frankness, but he just looked back at her, his blue eyes darkening.

 

 

“You know I have wanted that for longer than I care to remember Alex.” The use of her first name made her stomach leap. “I just…”

 

 

The end of his sentence was lost as Alex’s lips crashed onto his own. Their kiss was urgent and deep and each savoured the sensation: this intimate contact for which they had both longed. In no time, they were naked: in thought, in deed and before one another. Gene’s hands tangled in her hair as Alex moved over him: her breasts crushed against his chest, she slid down onto him. She gave herself away as she looked intently in his eyes; his pupils like black holes.

 

 

They rocked their bodies together. Alex fell forward onto his chest, her mouth roaming his neck. Gene’s hands were on her back, now her hips, pulling her onto him. Suddenly everything went black – she had placed the palms of her hands over his eyes, rendering him blind as their mouths met once more.

 

 

London swam before him… the river winding lazily out of sight…buildings of steel and glass and grey… thousand of human figures walked past him, intently speaking into their little black boxes. Across the bridge, the Houses of Parliament were partially obscured by a giant white ferris wheel. It looked like a space ship. His mind was filled with stars.

 

 

Alex dipped her hips, drawing him into her. Her heart felt it would burst out of her chest as ground against him. He pushed himself up until he was sitting cross-legged with her in his lap. He held her close to him as her hands left his eyes and wandered through his hair. He opened his eyes, but was unable to focus, so he let his eyelids fall and pressed his cheek to her breasts, her heart was machine gun fire…

 

 

The sound turned to fireworks… the sky was dark and London was bathed in multi-coloured lights… the air was crisp and cold… Winter? Where the east end docklands used to be, magnesium and gunpowder exploded in the sky over a huge dome shaped building, people everywhere… drinking and cheering “Happy New Millennium!”… and overhead a silver jet trailed a banner of light…it read “2000”.

 

 

Alex held her lover to her, kissing the top of his head. She cradled his face in her hands as their rhythm slowed slightly. “Y’ok?” she whispered breathlessly. He looked up at her, his eyes wide. “So… beautiful…. Alex,” he panted, “It’s …. So…”

 

 

A sunny summer day… Hyde Park… a baby boy gazed adoringly at his mother as she fed him, nearby an older child balanced on the back of a wooden bench and called to her mum, “Look at me!”… In the distance, a red bus grumbled past: on its side, “Olympic City 2012”…a man approached the scene, carrying ice creams in his hands… beautiful hazel eyes met his own as the woman smiled up at him… “It seems your son has inherited your appetite, Gene…”

 

 

“Oh Gene! …” She called his name as she swayed against him; her body gripped him tighter with each tiny second that passed, “Yessss…. Come with me! Oh come with me… oh!” She shook and convulsed around him, her rhythm causing him to let out a hoarse yell as he came inside her. Each was holding the other’s face in their hands as their mouths met in an exhausted kiss.

 

 

Gene and Alex lay, a tangled mess of limbs and deep breaths. Gene pulled the duvet over both of them and shifted round to face her, brushing a stray curl from her eyes. He could barely pluck up the courage to ask her but then the words came tumbling out. “Where do you come from Alex… really? How come you’re here? I mean… you put in for a transfer… “ He swallowed, “here.”

 

 

She frowned slightly. He noticed the way her nose wrinkled at the top when she did, and it made him love her all the more.

 

 

“I can’t tell you that Gene,” she said softly, “I really, really wish I could.” She paused for a moment, watching him as a look of frustration and confusion crept over his face.

 

 

“You don’t know? Or you won’t tell me?” He looked hurt.

 

 

“I… I... “ She faltered.

 

 

He was so elated at what had transpired between them: that finally they seem to have realised what they meant to one another: that they had made love and it had been utterly amazing. The images in his mind infuriated and intrigued him in equal measure.

 

 

“OK here’s a daft question for you Bolly,” he forced a smile out between his jumbled emotions. “Will London host the Olympic Games in two thousand and twelve?” The words made him almost laugh, they sounded so ridiculous. 2012 - a futuristic empire that would surely never come. And even if it did, he’d be 71 years old and undoubtedly pickled in a bar somewhere on the Costa Brava.

 

 

Alex’s frown deepened. “How could you possibly know that?” Suddenly there was urgency in her voice. She sat up and kneeled on the bed next to him, placing her hands on his chest. “Gene, listen to me… How do you know that? That hasn’t happened yet! It’s over thirty years from now, a new millennium!”

 

 

“What, so it’s true!” he exclaimed, “The thing is Bols, how do you know?!”

 

 

“I was there!” she cried, “I was there, at the announcement party, with Molly. And Evan.”

 

 

“Evan?!” Gene sat up now, eyes blazing. “Evan White?” he sneered the lawyer’s name.

 

 

Alex grabbed Gene’s hand: her mind was racing. Is Gene the key to my getting home? Is he real and alive in 2008 when I get shot? “Yes, Evan White!” her voice was raised now. “I promise you Gene, I PROMISE you it’s not what you think! YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!” Tears welled in her eyes, prompting Gene to soften and grasp her hand tighter.

 

 

“Bolly, calm down fer Christ’s sake.” He tried to soothe her, but her simply didn’t know what to do next.

 

 

“Gene,” Alex said, stricken. “How did you know about that? You have to tell me, I can’t begin to explain how important it is… I …” A dry sob racked her chest.

 

 

Gene took a deep breath, feeling very foolish for what he was about to say. “A dream, Alex. No, a vision - just images, I dunno, in my mind. They came to me, just then. When we made love.” His face was flushed as he looked at her anxiously.

 

 

Alex shook her head. “How?”

 

 

“I don’t KNOW!” he answered. “It were nonsense. There was an enormous fairground wheel on the river, by the Parliament. People everywhere, with those white box things, with the wires. Fireworks… It was New Year. 2000.”

 

 

“Please go on,” Alex whispered, dumbstruck.

 

 

Gene closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He sighed. “Then it changed. It was sunny: in the park. There was a woman there, with a teenage girl, playing on a bench by the pond. She had a baby…” He paused as his voice cracked slightly. “My son.”

 

 

“Your son?”

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

Alex’s gaze fell as one small tear escaped the corner of her eye. Then she felt Gene’s hand cup her chin, as he lifted her gaze to his. Somehow she knew what was coming.

 

 

“The woman… it was you, Alex.” He whispered, looking straight in her eyes.

 

 

Some twenty minutes later, emotionally and physically exhausted, the two were gently dozing. Alex lay in Gene’s arms, her head one side of his chest and her palm resting on the other, their legs intertwined. So many unanswered questions lingered between them, but it seemed that everything else mattered less, as long as they were together. Now or in the past or even in the future, whenever that was. Real or not, he was the key to something. And besides, she was in love with him.

 

 

She felt Gene’s head move and his lips touch the top of her hair. She didn’t know what to think anymore.

 

 

She spoke, almost soundlessly. “We each inhabit two worlds, Gene – the real world and the end of the world.”

 

 

There was silence. The pale autumn sun continued to burn in the sky and, in the street, London was wide-awake.

 

 

“The question is Bolly… which one is this?”


	3. Sunlight on St Paul's

  
Author's notes: Gene gets called to a hostage situation, while Alex has an unwelcome visitor.  


* * *

Two days had passed since Alex and her imaginary DCI had made love. Its inevitability had been apparent to both of them but neither had been prepared for the revelations and the confusion that would follow. Later that morning, Alex had dressed quickly and silently, slipping out the door undetected by her lover. A second after he heard the door close however, Gene had opened his eyes and sat up, reaching for his trousers and pulling a packet of cigarettes and his lighter from the pocket.

 

 

His mind was spinning as he tried to make sense of it all: the things he’d seen and felt. He may not have had Bolly’s upper-crust education, but Gene Hunt was no idiot. He was a pragmatist and he believed, no, knew, that none of it could be true. He couldn’t have seen the future, not even in dreams. He let out a long breath of smoke and flicked ash into his palm, glancing to the foot of the bed where Alex’s discarded underwear from last night still lay on the floor. “Bloody ‘ell Gene Hunt,” he muttered to himself, not daring to think any further than that. He placed his cigarette between his lips and pulled the duvet back. Time for work.

 

 

An ongoing investigative partnership with Special Branch had kept Alex out of the office for a couple of days, much to Gene’s annoyance and her own secret relief. She knew the conversation that was coming, but was thankful to be able to put it off at least for the time being. Tired and seeking solitude, she had crept up the back stairs to her flat, avoiding the drunken rabble in Luigi’s. It was her day off the next day and she fully intended to catch up on some sleep: she knew she would need all her strength to solve the new puzzle now preventing her from returning home to Molly and her life in 2008. She sank into bed and fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

Downstairs in the bar, Gene threw back his last mouthful of red wine and reached for the bottle to fill his glass once more. At the table next to him, Chris and Ray were serenading Shaz with a tuneless rendition of “O sole mio”, much to Luigi’s dismay. Gene shook his head ruefully and gazed at the flickering candle flame: he’d had one hell of day and now it didn’t look like Alex was going to put in an appearance for the second night running.

 

 

He’d been sitting in the Quattro, parked outside CID waiting for Chris and Ray to join him, when his radio and crackled and buzzed to life. Through the static a voice he didn’t recognise was trying to speak to him: Gene fiddled with the dials – a poppy-sounding tune suddenly blasted simultaneously on the police radio and the car radio, “Let’s all meet up in the year 2000… won’t it be strange when we’re all fully gro-o-own,” the singer crooned. The noise was deafening as Gene frantically tried to turn it off. When he did, his heart was pounding and a sweat had broken out on his forehead. He tried to regain composure as he spoke into the radio “Speak! This is DCI Gene Hunt, now ‘oo the ‘ell are you?”

 

 

“Sir, you MUST come now, I repeat, NOW - South Bank, by the power station, a gunman has taken a female hostage. Over”

 

 

“On me way.” Gene snarled back into the radio, firing up the engine and swearing under his breath, “Where the bloody ‘ell…?”

 

 

Just at that moment, Chris and Ray appeared at the station door, apparently not in any hurry. “Get a bloody move on you pair o’ tits!” Gene roared, pushing open the door. The two officers bundled in just in time before the car barrelled off in the direction of the river.

 

 

It was a cloudy overcast day: the sky brooded over the murky brown waters of the Thames and the top of the main chimney of the power station could barely be seen through the bluish mist. The Quattro screeched to a halt: Gene leapt out, gun in hand, and dashed towards the embankment. Ray flung the passenger door wide open and raced after the DCI as Chris scrambled out of the back seat.

 

 

Gene reached the railing and leaned on it, catching his breath. He swung round to face the empty waste ground in front of the looming brick building and watched Ray run towards him. “Guv, what the ‘ell’s goin’ on? What we ‘ere for?” the DS gasped as he bent over and leaned on his knees. Gene said nothing, his face set in a frown. There was nobody there. No gunman, no hostage, no uniform. Not a single living soul bar himself and his two junior officers, the younger of which was now walking casually towards them, looking confused. “Guv?” he questioned.

 

 

“It appears, ladies, that someone is yanking my chain,” he spat. “Now I don’t know ‘oo but when I find out they’re gonna wish their mother had kept ‘er knickers pinned to ‘er vest!”

 

 

He turned and looked across the river: a coal barge was grunting its way through the choppy waves and on the other side of the water, the gilt cross on top of St Paul’s dome caught a stray sunbeam and glowed supernaturally. There was the distant hum of traffic in the city centre. “Right, you two,” he said, turning to find Ray halfway through lighting a fag. “Get your arses round the back of here and see if you can see anything. I’m gonna try and find out who sent us ‘ere!”

 

 

Chris and Ray made off in the direction of the defunct power station. It wasn’t that long since it had closed down and it still stood proudly and rather sadly overlooking the river although its doors were barricaded shut. Hazard warning tape flew from the surrounding metal barriers like streamers and weeds were beginning to grow from the brickwork and gutters. The two men found a gap in the barriers and squeezed through before running round the side of the building, guns drawn.

 

 

Gene strode over to the car, tutting as he noticed Chris had left the passenger door wide open. He climbed inside and opened the glove box, rooting around for the hipflask he knew was inside. He closed his fingers round it and pulled it out, before taking a deep swig and wiping his mouth with the back of one leather-gloved hand. He picked up the police radio and fiddled with the knobs, trying to contact Viv back at the station. Nothing. The radio was completely dead. “Oh buggering ‘ell,” Gene cursed. Just then, out of the corner of his eye he caught a pair of eyes in the rear-view mirror. He jumped and immediately turned round. There was no-one in the back seat. His heart was racing as he turned forward again and looked in the mirror. There was a young girl, of about 12, staring back at him with large hazel eyes. She had long flyaway mousy brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. Her skin was pale, save for a distinctive birthmark on her left cheek and she wore an expression of calm indifference. Gene blinked and turned around again – still no-one there. “For God’s sake Hunt, get a grip. You’re seein’ things now!” he swore at himself. But when he turned back, the girl was still in the mirror with the same calm expression. Suddenly she spoke. “This is where it happens,” she said; and was gone.

 

 

“Guv! GUV!” Ray was knocking on the car window, trying to shout through the glass. “GUV!”

 

 

Gene snapped out of himself and glared at Ray. “Well, bloody get in then!” he barked.

 

 

“Can’t Guv, it’s locked!” Chris shouted back.

 

 

“EH?” Gene reached over and flipped the lock, pushing the door open. I didn’t lock the car doors. Chris and Ray climbed in.

 

 

Ray looked at his DCI’s face, which was completely drained of all colour. “You a’right?” he frowned. “Did you get hold of the station?” He picked up the radio and started fiddling with it.

 

 

Gene turned the key in the ignition and put his foot down. “No, Raymondo, I am most certainly NOT alright.” He saw the DS open his mouth to ask more. “Conversation OVER!” he yelled as they sped back to Fenchurch East. When they arrived back at the station, Gene tossed the radio over the front desk to a startled Viv. “Do none of these things bloody work?” he demanded as he strode off down the corridor to his office. He had just reached the door when Viv called after him. “Guv, of course it’s not working – it’s got no battery in it!”

 

 

Gene picked up the now empty bottle of wine and shambled over to the bar. Luigi looked at him, concerned, but he just held a hand up to the Italian man’s face. “Really, I’m not in the mood. Now, just give me another of these.” He pointed to the bottle. “To go.” He added. He paid for the wine and then made his way out the restaurant into the chill night air. He glanced up at Alex’s window, but the light was off.

 

 

“Bolly,” he sighed quietly, putting the key in the car door.

 

 

Alex slept late the next morning, waking only when the phone rang insistently from the next room. There were only three people in this world who knew her number and one of them – her mother - was no longer there. She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. She couldn’t imagine why Evan White would be calling her and she certainly didn’t want to speak to Gene at the moment.

 

 

The ringing stopped and Alex breathed a sigh of relief. She threw the covers over her head to block out the sunlight and as she did so, she caught the scent of Gene, where they had slept together limbs entwined, just two nights before. She had barely spoken to him since. She allowed herself to remember him, naked, his mouth on hers, hands caressing her body as he pushed inside her. She felt heat growing between her legs as she turned over and slipped one hand inside her pyjamas. When she came, it was him she pictured: his eyes on hers, their souls pressed together. For an instant, she wished he was there with her, so she could feel that connection again.

 

 

“Pick up the bloody phone Alex,” Gene murmured, his ears filled with the fruitless ringing on the other end of the line. He was in his office with the door shut, eyeing Chris and Ray through the blinds in case either of them approached the door. “Just pick it up, I need to talk to you,” he willed her. Nothing. The ring was replaced once more by the dialling tone, before he eventually flung the receiver back into its heavy plastic cradle.

 

 

“Right.” he said, picking up his coat and striding out towards the main doors. “Lunchtime a’ready boss?” Chris asked him, lifting his jacket from the back of his chair. Gene stopped him. “No. I’m goin’ out. Company not required.” The doors swung shut behind him.

 

 

Alex stood in the shower, letting the hot water stream down on her. Some went in her mouth and she giggled, spitting it out. She remembered washing Molly’s hair when she was younger, how the child would fill her mouth with water and then put her lips into a spout and press her cheeks together. They had both ended up soaked many times because of that game. “Oh Molly…” Alex sighed, running her hands through her hair and rinsing the rest of the shampoo out. “I promise you I’m coming back.” But even as the words left her lips she believed them less and less. The truth was she had no idea what to do or how to get back home. When she’d arrived in 1981 she was convinced she knew the drill, but none of the signs and messages Sam Tyler had experienced had been forthcoming – now there was the added complication of her construct apparently having visions of the future. She wondered briefly if this was her own brain reminding her of her life back in 2008. Just then the water ran cold, Alex felt her blood chill and drain from her limbs: she leaned against the tiles, gasping. Her vision blurred as she placed both palms on the shower screen and, with the last of her strength, she screamed – through the misted glass she could just make out the creeping outline of Pierrot.

 

 

Gene heard her blood-curdling scream from halfway up the stairs from the restaurant: immediately he began running, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. He hammered the door with his fist. Without even stopping to yell, he shouldered the door. It flung open in a fit of flying metal and splintered wood as the DCI burst through it: he swung round frantically looking for Alex. “Bolly… BOLLY!” he yelled as he flew from room to room, panic rising in his chest.

 

 

He followed the sound of the water. Tearing through to the bathroom he could make out the pale shape of Alex’s body, slumped against the glass. His heart was in his mouth as he flung open the shower cabinet and reached up to turn the water off before kneeling down and cradling Alex in his arms. He spoke urgently, “Alex, ALEX can you hear me? ALEX!!” Her voice faintly mumbled back but he couldn’t make out words. She was alive and breathing, just disorientated and cold: Gene couldn’t contain his relief and, as he tenderly picked up her limp naked body, faint tears threatened to come.

 

 

He pulled her close to him as he carried her through to her bedroom. Drops of water fell from her hair, soaking his shoulder as goosebumps appeared on her skin. Her teeth started to chatter as she whispered his name over and over. Gene pushed the bedroom door open with his foot but as he carried Alex through the scene suddenly changed: the bedroom was different.

 

 

The walls had no wallpaper on, but were painted a deep teal colour… an ornate stone fireplace … the floor underfoot was varnished hardwood. Above the huge dark wooden bed there was a painting… St Bride, carried across the sea by angels… the room was flooded with the rich cherry glow of a summer sunset. He looked down at the beautiful woman in his arms… she was dressed a simple cream satin dress, shoulders bare, her hair wrapped into a seductive chignon.. smoky eyes laughed up at him, “I might well be Mrs Hunt, ‘Gene’,” she gestured with her fingers, “But I’m still Detective Inspector Alex Drake!” … he carried her over to the bed, “We’ll see about that!” he teased…he slipped his hands up under her dress, teasing one clip of her suspender belt undone.

 

 

Shocked, Gene looked down at the still naked, shivering Alex on the bed in front of him. “Christ!” he swore, grabbing a towel and a blanket from the chest of drawers behind him. He wrapped her in the blanket and rubbed her hair dry, before lying down close to her and wrapping his body round hers to transfer heat. What the hell just happened there? “Bolly, I have to get you dressed and to the hospital, ok?” he spoke softly to her. “Gene, no…” she whispered. “There’s nothing they can do. I’m dying.” Tears filled her eyes. “Just stay, stay with me until I go.” She reached up and took his face in her hands. “You have to let me go.”

 

 

Alex laid her head against Gene’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Surely this was it, this time? He father had come for her. She was dying, here, now, in Gene’s arms.

 

 

“I loved you,” she whispered, before her eyes closed.


	4. The Truth Dawns

  
Author's notes: Alex and Gene exchange harsh words, but the truth and Arthur Layton move closer.  


* * *

Shaz winced. She hated it when the Guv and DI Drake fought like this. Chris glanced up, concerned, but stopped in his tracks when Ray shot him a withering look. There was no need for the officers to wonder what their superiors were arguing about as they could hear every caustic accusation and harsh retort ricochet off the walls of DCI Hunt’s office.

 

 

“You bloody broke my bloody door down, you stupid bullish oaf!” Alex yelled, jabbing one finger at him accusingly.

 

 

He roared back, “And YOU are not bloody listening, you daft mare! I heard you screaming! What the ‘ell was I supposed to do!”

 

 

“Well how the hell do I know?” she shrieked, “I don’t remember anything about it, apart from finding myself NAKED on top of my bed while my front door was HANGING OFF ITS HINGES!”

 

 

Outside, Ray raised his eyebrows at this particular detail. He whispered sideways to Chris, “’Ere, d’y’reckon he got ‘is leg over?” He leaned back in his chair and let out a mock whistle, “ho-ho!”

 

 

Chris looked over a Shaz, his eyes wide. He didn’t notice that the end of the pink wafer he’d been dunking had dropped off and fallen into his tea. Meanwhile, the torrent continued.

 

 

“I tried ringin’ you, but you didn’t BLOODY ANSWER! That’s why I came over! I needed…” he lowered his voice slightly, “I needed to talk to you.”

 

 

“With no clothes on??”

 

 

“You had collapsed in the shower! I thought you were… well… if I’d known this was gonna happen I might just have BLOODY LEFT YOU THERE!”

 

 

Alex stuck her chin out in mute defiance. Her eyes flashed dangerously. She moved to walk towards the door, but Gene raced out from behind his desk and blocked her. Their bodies were close: close enough that she could feel his breath on her face.

 

 

“Alex.”

 

 

“Get out of my way Gene, I have work to do.” Her voice sounded cold, but there was something else behind it.

 

 

She raised her hand to reach for the door handle, but Gene grabbed her wrist. She gasped. He looked at her. “I think you should see a doctor.” There was concern in his voice, which softened Alex a little.

 

 

“You think I’m mad don’t you?”

 

 

“I’m worried about you.” He paused. “Come to that, I’m worried about me. You can’t possibly think this is normal.”

 

 

Alex looked at the floor. “Of course it’s not,” she gave a hollow laugh, “None of it is! You, this place: the last vain attempts by my dying brain to imagine something better than Arthur Layton’s bullet.”

 

 

“Alex, you are NOT dying! You said that yesterday and you ‘ad just fainted. I know a lot of birds ‘oo are prone to melodrama and believe me, none of ‘em do it quite like you, but…”

 

 

She looked up at him, fighting back tears. “Melodrama Gene? Is that what you think this is? I will probably never see my little girl again. For all I know my body is currently feeding the marine life of the Thames and what’s more, my subconscious has dumped me here, in Sam Tyler’s fantasy world, with YOU!”

 

 

She hadn’t let him finish. He had been about to tell her that he believed her, that he wanted to help her work out why all this was happening, that he would be with her, every step of the way.

 

 

“You told me you loved me.” He tried to keep his face expressionless: he didn’t want her to know how his heart had leapt when she’d said those words.

 

 

“I did?” Shit, I did. I do. She looked at his face: it was impossible to tell what he was thinking now. Her memories flooded back of his strong arms stealing her away from the Clown, carrying her to safety and holding her as she drew what she thought was her last breath. When she awoke, there was a locksmith working on the broken door and Gene was in the kitchen, making tea. He had sent her back to bed and then left shortly after, kissing her gently and pulling her duvet over her. Such tenderness… I blew it. Stay calm Alex.

 

 

She really doesn’t remember Gene thought. He let go of her wrist and moved out of her way. “OK Bols. You win.”

 

 

“No Gene. Whatever the hell it is I’m doing here, it’s certainly not winning. Anything.” she spoke sadly, moving past him and out the door.

 

 

The air outside was cold but the sun peered over the tops of the grimy grey London tower blocks, lighting her path as Alex walked through the city. She hadn’t intended to head to the river, but as she approached the looming silhouette of the Bankside Power station she felt somehow this was the place to be. She hadn’t come back here since her arrival in 1981, in truth the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. A chill came over her as she imagined the scene that would happen 27 years from now, or that happened a fraction of a second ago. The heels of her boots clicked on the silent concrete as she walked down the steps, gazing up at empty sky where one day, on the Millennium Bridge, she would blow a final kiss to her daughter. She reached the gravely embankment: the grey grit and stones crunched under her as she sat down, lazily throwing a pebble into the water.

 

 

I told him I loved him, she thought. How can I love someone who doesn’t exist? None of this made any sense to her. She cast her mind back three nights ago; the deep passion of their lovemaking had been so startlingly real. And the accuracy of Gene’s visions of a future London? She felt a wrench in her stomach as she remembered him telling her she was there, with their child, together and happy with him - like her brain was taunting her with the things she could never have. A tide of panic rose up in her as she tried to picture Molly’s face and couldn’t. The image swam in her mind, blurred and unrecognisable. Alex cried as she gazed across the river, unsure if she was mourning her daughter or herself.

 

 

She suddenly became aware of movement behind her, she looked round, shielding her tired eyes from the glare of the sun. There was a tall silhouette of a man, his long wool coat flapped slightly in the breeze from the water. A familiarly gruff voice spoke to her. “I thought I’d find you ‘ere.”

 

 

Gene removed his coat and placed it over Alex’s shoulders before settling down on the pebbles next to her. The weight and warmth of him next to her was like a hymn. She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. He tenderly lifted a hand to her face and brushed aside a windswept curl. His stomach jerked when he saw she was crying. He turned his face to hers and gently kissed her tears. “I should know better Bolly, but…” One corner of his mouth curled slightly. “I’m a fool where you’re concerned.”

 

 

“Gene.” Alex whispered, his name still on her lips as she kissed his mouth. It was a long, deep, sensual kiss: the kiss of true lovers. Both were quite breathless by the time they parted. Gene drew his tongue across Alex’s bottom lip a final time and moved away, leaving her face a picture of bliss; eyes closed and mouth slightly open. When she came round, he was watching her with an expression of tender concern. He spoke in a low voice. “I hope that makes my feelings clear Alex.”

 

 

“Mmmm,” was just about all Alex could say. She reached round and took his coat, pulling it across his shoulders as well as hers, before snuggling down inside. Her arm snaked across his stomach, making him shudder with delight as she slipped her hand inside his suit jacket. They sat like this in silence for a while before Alex murmured, “How did you know I’d be here?”

 

 

“Because this is where it happened.” He felt Alex tense in his arms. “Isn’t it?”

 

 

“Where what happened?” Her voice shook a little.

 

 

“Whatever it is that’s hurting you. Whatever has separated you from your little girl and whatever the hell it was that brought you to me.”

 

 

Alex said nothing.

 

 

Taking a deep breath, Gene continued. “I’m not a religious man Bolly, but I praise the gods for the day you wobbled into my care, dressed like a prozzie… all full of wit and righteous anger.” She felt him smiling. “But as you so frequently remind me, this isn’t where you want to be. Is it?”

 

 

“It’s complicated.”

 

 

“So you keep saying. Why don’t you just try me?”

 

 

Alex sighed. What the hell have I got to lose – he already thinks I’m bonkers. She took a deep breath.“Before I came here I had a promising career as Forensic Psychologist. I was tipped for DCI next promotion board because of the success of my work: my criminal profiling helped put a lot of bad guys away.”

 

 

Gene nodded, although the concept of criminal profiling was still a little lost on him.

 

 

“I was hoping that a promotion would also mean a transfer – a new start for my daughter and me. My dedication to my work along with my husband’s roving eye had taken its toll on my marriage. He left me, 3 years ago.” Her voice was impassive.

 

 

Gene said nothing, but inwardly he was astounded that someone would leave Alex. Fool, he thought.

 

 

Alex continued. “I didn’t have much to stay in London for. A few friends… Molly’s godfather… but no other family. I was planning to transfer to Scotland and concentrate on the work I had begun with officers who had undergone severe trauma at work. That was how I knew Sam Tyler.”

 

 

“Another total fruitcake.” Gene muttered, fondly.

 

 

“Yes, another total fruitcake.” Alex smiled. She reached up and put her lips to his neck, tracing a small line of tiny kisses round his jaw until she reached his lips.

 

 

“He was very fond of you, y’know… Sam,” she carried on. “He told me all about you and the others. The work you did at GMP.”

 

 

“I miss him.”

 

 

“Weirdly, so do I… although I never met him.” Alex shivered a little and Gene closed his arms tighter around her. “Anyway, I realised yesterday, when I thought I was dying, that lying there in your arms was exactly where I wanted to be. I mean, if this is where I’m going to end up. The only reason I can’t stay is that I miss my daughter Gene, I have to try to get back to her.”

 

 

“You say back, Bols, but you said earlier on you were 'ere… in London. Where’s Molly then?” Gene asked.

 

 

“I don’t know. I think she’s with her godfather. I hope she’s safe.”

 

 

Gene spoke, this time a little urgently. “Bolly, I need to ask you something. I don’t wanna to upset you, but it’s important.”

 

 

Alex nodded.

 

 

“What’s Molly like? I mean, how old is she… What does she look like?”

 

 

Alex smiled. “She’s smart and pretty. It’s her 12th birthday… today in fact. She inherited a few things from me: tenacity… a tendency to want her own way,” she laughed. “She has my eyes, but her father’s colouring generally – lighter hair. She was teased a lot at junior school because of her birthmark, but I always tell her it’s beautiful.”

 

 

Gene froze, his mind racing, his suspicions confirmed. He swallowed hard. “I saw her Alex. Here.”

 

 

Alex sat up. “Gene - that’s impossible!”

 

 

“A lot of things are impossible Alex, but they seem to keep happening! I’m telling you, I saw her, here in the back of the Quattro, the day before yesterday.”

 

 

He continued, telling her the whole story: the radio message telling him to get to Bankside; arriving to find no-one there and then Molly appearing in the rear-view mirror. Alex just listened, her eyes wide as saucers.

 

 

“And when I got back to the station, I gave the radio to Viv and he said there was no battery in it. That was the final straw for me, Bols, I was convinced I was goin’ round the bloody bend. I wanted to tell you about it, but then you didn’t show up at Luigi’s and when I tried ringin’ you yesterday there was no answer. I was on my way over when the whole shower carry-on 'appened.”

 

 

“Oh God.” Alex felt a little queasy. “Did she say anything? Did she speak? I haven’t seen her in so long...”

 

 

“She just said, ‘This is where it happens.’ And then she disappeared. Look, I know this all sounds like utter bloody nonsense, but there’s something far wrong going on here, because later, when I was carrying you out the shower, suddenly you were in a wedding dress and we were about to ‘ave sex, and to be honest, I haven’t the foggiest bloody idea why I’m telling you all this.” He suddenly became defensive, acutely aware of how ridiculous he sounded. “I’m getting as bad as you!”

 

 

“No, listen Gene,” Alex took his hand. She looked at him, her eyes dark. “I can say truly, honestly, with my hand on my heart, that I don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but it’s clear whatever it is we’re in it together.” Her eyes moistened, but she blinked hard, fighting back tears. “I promise you I will tell you what happened here, but for now, please just know Gene… that I love you. I LOVE YOU!”

 

 

She shouted the last bit; a half-crazed ecstatic laugh escaped her lips, as she stood up. She swayed unsteadily on the riverbank, her arms raised on either side of her. She closed her eyes and breathed in the cool river air. Opening them again, she looked down at him, smiling at the bemused expression on his face. “Remember what you told the Price’s little girl, Gene? If she ever needed you, to call the Gene Genie. Well, here you are! She needs you now - and here you are. My lover.”

 

 

Gene got to his feet, the coat falling from his shoulders as he walked towards this crazy beautiful woman he adored. He closed his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. “Let’s go home.”

 

 

As they walked hand in hand up the steps, neither of them noticed the shadowy figure leaning against the metal barriers of the power station. They climbed into the Audi and kissed each other before the car roared off into the distance.

 

 

Layton watched them with hollow eyes, his greying stubble accentuating the pale clamminess of his skin. Hands shaking, he pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it, coughing as the hot smoke racked his chest. He turned his face to the river and, fighting his way through the oncoming tide of tourists, walked unsteadily towards the shining, silvery Millennium Bridge.


	5. Bendy Knickers

  
Author's notes: The passion intensifies, but so does the angst... and Ian McAskill has a bad weather forecast.  


* * *

“If you keep lookin’ at me like that Bolly, something very bad is gonna ‘appen,” Gene Hunt growled, smoothing the palm of his right hand across Alex’s stomach.

 

 

She was sprawled on the bed; her brunette curls fell across the pillow like an autumn storm, her tawny eyes mischievous and dark with lust. Flawless skin glowed ivory against the deep blue satin of her bra and knickers and one leg stretched straight out towards Gene, who was lying sideways across the duvet. The other leg was bent up exposing her inner thigh to his touch. His chin rested on top of her knee as he lazily ran his finger from her belly button, down across the damp fabric of her panties and up her thigh to his mouth, where he kissed the top of his finger and sent it on its journey again. She shivered at the delicate contact.

 

 

“Or something very good?” she raised her eyebrows, trying in vain to keep her breath steady. “I’m ready when you are Gene.” Her perfect lips settled in a seductive pout.

 

 

In truth, her heart rate had barely returned to normal after the almost violent passion she and her DCI had just shared. He had driven like a madman back from the riverside, and they had barely made it through the door before their lips crashed in a bruising kiss. Gene’s hands cradled Alex’s face as his tongue explored her mouth; her hands flew over his body, undoing his shirt… his belt… his zip. Her palms ran the length of his torso, up under his vest, their kiss breaking for just long enough to pull it over his head.

 

 

They staggered across the floor together; Gene collapsed down to a sitting position on the sofa pulling Alex on top of him. They stayed like this for a while, kissing, stroking and touching one another as their hips writhed together. Gene wrenched his mouth from hers and kissed his way down her neck, across her collarbone and to her breasts, which he gathered to his mouth with his hands. Alex leaned back, groaning with pleasure. She reached a hand down between them, stroking Gene and pulling him to her. Suddenly, she slid backwards, dropping to the floor and kneeling between his legs. She placed light kisses on his thighs and stomach as her hands made to pull his briefs to the floor. Sighing a long sigh, Gene sank back into the sofa, his fingers tangled in Alex’s hair. He groaned as Alex slipped his underwear down and his cock sprang free. He could feel her breath on him.

 

 

He forced himself to speak.

 

 

“Bolly… uuh… wait,” he gasped. “’Ang on... mmMMMmm…I don’t want… uuuhhhh…” he lost the ability to speak as she ran the tip of her tongue up his length and then closed her warm wet lips around him. She stopped and looked up, questioningly.

 

 

“I, errr, look Bols,” he breathed, “Yer not a prozzie… I mean, I don’t expect…” He looked down at her, half wincing at the sight of her poised there.

 

 

“Oh, come on Gene,” she sighed in playful exasperation. “It’s the 21st century!”

 

 

She took his hand and placed a kiss on his palm.

 

 

“I want to. I want to feel you in my mouth…” She lowered her head again.

 

 

The 21st century? That was the last coherent thought in Gene’s head before everything went black and he was spinning through stars.

 

 

A banner floated above the door in CID “Congratulations Ray”… tins of beer were opened and clunked together with whoops and giggles… Shaz on Chris’s knee… Ray stood to make a speech, a party hat sat lopsided on his head…

 

 

The images flickered like 8mm film in Gene’s head, his breath racing as he spiralled towards orgasm. He gripped Alex’s hand tighter…

 

 

“Well, a toast to that Alex Drake bloke”… Ray raised a tin of lager…”I don’t know why ‘e never showed up but I, fer one, am gonna thank ‘im!” Gene watched himself put an arm round his friend… “Ahem! Nonces and ponces, twonks and plonks, I give you…. Our new Detective Inspector Carling!” … a cheer rose…

 

 

Gene struggled to rid his mind of the images - he wanted to be in the here and now, but his efforts were in vain. The scene changed.

 

 

… A balcony… he was standing in the warm summer night air, overlooking the twinkling sodium lights of London… snakes of red and white light moved through the city…. Arms around his waist… a low voice in his ear… “Come back to bed Gene.” He turned to face Alex, her hair was sleek… a dark bob with a blunt fringe… they kissed… his hand slipped under her robe and he pushed her gently against the balcony… she faced away from him, spreading her legs apart…

 

 

“Oh… God…” Gene cried out, he couldn’t stop himself. His hips shuddered as he came, feeling the hot liquid rise, pouring out of him and down Alex’s throat. He panted, trying to breathe. He opened his eyes: through his blurred vision he could make out her face move towards him to kiss his forehead. She dropped her head to his shoulder, following the rise and fall as his breathing slowly returned to normal. Gene raised a hand to his face. He covered his eyes, frantically trying to regain focus. Alex’s weight shifted off him and her heard her voice like treacle in his ear: “I’ll be waiting next door for you.” She walked through to her bedroom, peeling off her clothes as she went.

 

 

A short time later, when he was sure his legs would carry him, Gene lifted himself from the sofa and followed her. Now here he was, lying on Luigi's cheap wicker bed, resting his chin on Alex's knee and teasing her with long slow strokes of his finger.

 

 

He turned his head and placed a gentle kiss on the inside of her knee. He continued stroking her, his gaze flicked between her eyes and the tiny firmness now faintly visible where his finger played. He kissed his way down her thigh and across the lace band at the top of her underwear, sliding one arm under her and lifting her bodily to his mouth. His tongue toyed in the hollow of her hip, as the finger that had been stroking her slipped under the elastic between her legs and caressed the silkiness it met there. Alex gasped and wriggled with pleasure. She lifted one leg and rested it over his shoulder; the weight of it pushed his face closer. He was immersed in the scent and heat of her as he stretched his left arm up, his palm moving across her skin to meet her breast. She clasped her hand over his, sliding the other one down and tugging at her knickers. She spread her legs wide.

 

 

“Mmmmm Bolly,” Gene mumbled into her, “You’re an impatient girl, aren’t you?” He was smiling as he raised his eyes to meet hers. He hooked his finger under her pants, pulling them from side to side and kissing the exposed skin. “A very (kiss)… naughty (uuuhhh)… dirty (kiss)… impatient (mmMMmm)…. GIRL!” With the shout of the last word, he tugged hard at her knickers – the elastic gave way and the fabric ripped, leaving her completely laid bare before him. She let go a yell of excitement as he parted her lips and lapped at her, gently at first then faster until she shook around him, her fingers pulling at his hair.

 

 

Barely giving her time to recover, he slid his body up between her legs, hooking her knee over his right shoulder. “Mmmmm… I like this…” his voice rumbled as he placed heavy kisses on her neck and shoulder. “Maybe I’ll start calling you Bendy Knickers…”

 

 

Alex had no time to think of a witty response to that one – the air was crushed out of her lungs as Gene lowered himself into her, pushing home, his hips rolling against her. Long fingered hands framed her face; she stared up at him as he thrust into her.

 

 

She bit her lip to stop from screaming and rolled her head to one side… kisses on her neck… she turned her eyes to the window… the blind was gone, deep chocolate velvet curtains billowed across the dark wood frames of the bay window… a white Victorian plaster rose on the ceiling… beside her on the bed, an abandoned bouquet of blue irises, white roses and thistles… she raised her left hand to stroke her lover’s face… a platinum band glimmered on her finger…

 

 

“So close Alex…” Gene growled, moving deep within her, his speed increasing. Alex closed her eyes as her orgasm overtook her, biting down on Gene’s shoulder as he spilled into her. They lay where they were, hot and breathless, before Gene rolled over and pulled her across him. One arm under her shoulders, he drew her head across his chest with the other. He stroked her hair and heard her murmur softly, “I’ve heard people say the Earth can move, but I didn’t realise it was actually true. Making love with you is like… like...”

 

 

“… Like watching worlds collide?” he offered.

 

 

“You too?”

 

 

“Yeah, me too.”

 

 

Alex stirred restlessly, inadvertently kicking Gene as she turned over and tried to get out of bed. “Oi!” he grumbled, grabbing her wrist, “Where d’y’think you’re goin’ ?”

 

 

“I’m starving Gene, let’s get dressed and go down to Luigi’s. The others will be there by now,” she said, glancing at the clock. “Come on Grumpy,” she teased, “You can’t tell me you’re not dying for a pint and a fag at least.” With that, she climbed out of bed, gave him his hand back and scampered naked to the shower.

 

 

Twenty minutes later, they were close to leaving the flat. Alex finished putting on her make-up and wandered through to the living room where Gene was idly fiddling with the television set. As she walked behind him she suddenly stopped. The image stilled her heart. He turned his face to her, looking worried. He could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears.

 

 

“That’s her, isn’t it?” he said, pointing to the girl on the screen. Alex nodded silently.

 

 

Together they watched Molly approach her birthday cake; it was topped with glowing candles.

 

 

“You have to stop it. Stop!” the little girl said, before she took a deep breath and extinguished each tiny flame.

 

 

Darkness.

 

 

The picture buzzed and flickered and was replaced by Ian McCaskill, sticking little plastic clouds on a map of Britain.

 

 

“Looks like bad times ahead for those of you in London, although those in the north can expect drier weather, with some sunnier spells.”


	6. Explanations

  
Author's notes: Alex tries to tell Gene the truth, and a phone call is imminent.  


* * *

“You mean to tell me you’ve met Layton before?” Gene frowned and downed the last of his pint. He looked across the table at Alex, who was still pale from what had just happened upstairs.

 

 

“Yes,” she said, her eyes narrow. She didn’t quite know how to have this conversation. Despite knowing that Gene had been sharing her strange visions, she wasn’t sure he was ready for the time-travelling cop saga. Keep it simple Alex she thought.

 

 

“I was called in on a, uhh…situation involving him while back. Before I came here I mean. That was why was I was interested to learn he was snouting for you. Of course, we now know he was involved in the death of the Prices so I have a legitimate reason for tracking him down…”

 

 

“’Ang on Bols,” Gene interrupted. “We don’t have any evidence ‘e was involved with that car bombing. An’ even if we did, we have no bloody idea where ‘e is! Whaddya wanna track ‘im down for anyway?”

 

 

“That may be so Gene, but he is the key to this. He is the key to me getting back to my daughter.” She had a pleading look on her face, her brow furrowed and lips pursed. Gene looked at her.

 

 

“There’s still something you’re not telling me.”

 

 

They were sitting in their usual corner of Luigi’s, pretending to eat his special prawn linguini; neither of them was particularly hungry. The others hadn’t yet put in an appearance. “Must be doin’ some bloody work for a change,” Gene had muttered. A candle flickered in the middle of the table, highlighting the lines of worry on his face as he watched Alex push her food around her plate absent-mindedly. He raised his arm to attract Luigi’s attention and the restaurant owner came over straight away.

 

 

“Ah ‘allo Signor Hunt.” He beamed and turned to Alex. “And how is the beautiful Alexandra this evening?”

 

 

Alex continued staring at her plate, her fork now poised, unmoving in one hand. Luigi raised his eyebrows and looked back at Gene, who just shook his head and mouthed “Not now.” Then he spoke loudly, “We’re fandabydozy Luigi. Now how about another pint?”

 

 

Luigi took the empty glass and walked sadly back to the bar.

 

 

“Bolly.”

 

 

Gene reached across the table and took the fork from Alex’s hand. The contact broke her from her reverie and she looked down where his fingers now intertwined with hers. He stroked her with his thumb. “Bolly,” he said again.

 

 

Alex sighed. Her gaze met his and she opened her mouth. “OK. Here’s what I think happened. Layton shot me. I’m either dead, or in a coma and I’m dreaming all of this.” She paused. “Or… this is some kind of afterlife. Or… I travelled back in time.” She sat back in her chair, breaking the contact of their hands and staring at her plate. She steeled herself for the tirade of ridicule she felt certain was coming her way.

 

 

Silence.

 

 

“And this is what happened at Bankside?” Gene finally said, eyeing her.

 

 

“Yes. Only it’s a modern art museum now. The Tate.”

 

 

“Well, that just about sums up the poncey-arsed way the bloody country is goin’!” Gene observed. He leaned his face on the palm of one hand, his elbow resting on the table. “So all this mad stuff appearing in my ‘ead… the portable phones, the fairground wheel, Batman in Westminster… is from the future?”

 

 

“Yes. Well, that is, unless I am merely imagining you imagining it in my head as some kind of way of reminding myself I’m alive.”

 

 

“Hmm…” Gene paused. “And you an’ me? Married?”

 

 

“No. You made that bit up. Or I did. Or we both did.”

 

 

Gene put his other elbow on the table and lowered his head to his hands. He stayed like that for a few minutes, and then dragged his palms down his face. As he raised his head, he noticed Luigi had brought his second pint. Grabbing the glass, he flung down a healthy swig, letting out a long breath as the cold liquid wet his throat. He really didn’t know what to say. All he knew was that he wanted to help her. He tried to push aside the knowledge that if he succeeded she would be lost to him – he had to do what was right for her and her daughter.

 

 

“So what are we gonna do?” he asked eventually.

 

 

“We?”

 

 

“Well yeah…” Gene considered. “You said we were in this together.” He leaned forward and held his hand out to her.

 

 

Alex stayed where she was, still looking at him. Her eyes began to fill with tears as she remembered Molly’s words in the television screen. “We have to stop, Gene.”

 

 

“Stop what?”

 

 

“This, I presume, you and me. Us.”

 

 

“I don’t see how that’s gonna make any difference,” Gene protested. His heart was racing now. He knew he had to lose her but please God let it be later rather than sooner.

 

 

Alex looked at him in desperation. “What am I doing Gene? I’m fighting for my life and getting sidetracked. This is all so out of character for me, it’s like I’m losing myself.” Gene looked at her, confused. She continued, her voice shaking. “I’m having sex - unprotected sex at that, something I would NEVER do - with a man 10 years my senior; who also happens to be my superior officer, and who, for all I know, isn’t even real, AND with whom, despite his violence and ignorance and excessive drinking, I have fallen completely in love. I’m trapped!”

 

 

Gene swallowed hard. He was beginning to understand.

 

 

“Loving you just makes it harder to leave, Gene,” Alex said sadly. “But I have to. I have to find Layton and I have to get home.”

 

 

She pushed her chair back from the table and, choking down a sob, ran from the restaurant. Gene didn’t follow. His heart was broken, but he knew what he had to do. He had almost finished his pint when he heard the rabble of the CID team outside the restaurant. They’d been playing football and Chris, having miraculously scored the winning goal, was being carried down the stairs to jubilant whoops and cheers. A hilarious scene followed as they all tried to squeeze through the narrow trattoria doors.

 

 

Gene looked up to see Ray beaming as he walked towards him, muddy football in hand and his cheeks still rosy with the effects of fresh air and victory. “Guv, Guv!” he said excitedly. “We nailed ‘em good ‘n proper, 3-2!”

 

 

“That’s great Ray.” Gene sounded less than enthused.

 

 

“It were a pushover Guv, they were all over the place.” Ray started to act out a set piece, gesturing with his arms and legs. “We got the corner, an’ Lewis took it - football gold it was Guv, straight to my ‘ead, I dropped it down, shimmied it over an’ Chris were lined up right there… off ‘is left foot… It were…”

 

 

“Ray, Ray,” Gene interrupted. “I’m sure it was worthy of the great Pele ‘imself...” He pulled Ray over to one side and spoke in a low voice. “Ray, listen to me. I need you to do me a favour. Soon as you’ve got cleaned up I need you back in CID.”

 

 

Ray’s face fell. He’d been so looking forward to getting trolleyed and reliving the glory of the match with the rest of the boys. “What’s up Guv?”

 

 

“I can’t tell you much Raymondo, you’re just gonna ‘ave to trust me on this one. I need you to get as much on Arthur Layton as possible. The ‘ole lot. Previous, current, outstanding warrants, everythin’. I need that bastard nailed before sundown tomorrow.”

 

 

Ray looked confused but nodded assent. “A’right Guv.” He turned to leave, but Gene grabbed his arm.

 

 

“Not a word about this to anyone,” he said. “Not even Chris.”

 

 

Ray nodded silently and walked away as Gene gestured to Luigi. “Whisky.”

 

 

Upstairs, Alex had drawn a bath and was sitting, dressed only in her black satin robe, in the middle of the floor. She was surrounded by scraps of paper, notes and business cards, photographs and newspaper cuttings, and her own calendar, still with the blood-marked question mark over the day Shaz nearly died. Molly sat in silence behind her as she pored over all the evidence she had accumulated, trying to make some desperate sense of it all. Memories and images flicked through her mind: where had Layton gone when the car had exploded? The pain of watching it all again had seared through her. As she fell to her knees all thoughts of Layton escaped her mind - a scream ripped from her lungs with the unbearable loss of her mother all over again. In the hollow moments of grief that followed, her mind had turned to Gene: her saviour, her protector. The case remained unsolved – with no evidence to convict the former drug lord, the files had closed and the Prices’ deaths had been put down to one of any number of grudges against them.

 

 

She shifted, folding her legs underneath her and pulling the corner of her robe over her knees. Maybe Evan… she thought.

 

 

She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Molly disappeared as Alex turned her head and scrambled to her feet, pulling the robe around her as she opened the door. Gene stood, his arms outstretched, leaning on the door-frame: his hair flopped slightly over one eye; his tie-less shirt undone about 3 buttons. Alex just made out the glint of his gold chain before she was met by the dark peaty aroma of whisky. She smiled at him, in spite of herself.

 

 

“Ello Bols.” He said. “Can I come in?” He was already halfway through the door before the question was out. He turned to face her, moving close until her back was against the door. He stood an inch away from her, his eyes on her, gaze dropping from her face to the V of her robe, and further down, his eye hungrily taking in the pale skin of her thigh. He reached around and took his suit jacket off, throwing it on the floor. Alex watched him, her breath quickening, as he slipped one finger under the neckline of the robe, gradually sliding it down and pulling the material towards him. His eyes followed his hand, surveying each exposed inch of skin, the curve of her breast and the goosebumps now appearing there. As his finger slid lower, the loose knot at her waist came free and the robe fell open. Gene could not contain a sharp intake of breath at the beauty now before him. Without speaking, he trailed the tip of his finger across one breast, the nipple responding to his touch. He continued, leaving tiny sparks in his wake as he touched her stomach. Alex steadied herself against the door, parting her thighs for him. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

 

 

Gene dropped to his knees in front of her. With both arms round her waist, he pressed his cheek to her belly – he closed his eyes, and let his other senses take over. Her warmth and scent enveloped him as he turned and placed open-mouthed kisses on her skin, further and further down, until his tongue pushed between her lips. Circling her clit, he sucked and kissed her, making love to her with his tongue, until she felt her legs would give way. He felt her tense and shudder, giving a brief yell before her legs buckled. Gene leapt up to meet her, cradling her in his arms, her naked breasts pressed harder against him with every stolen breath. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “For now at least.” He tried to smile, as he lifted her face towards his. They kissed deeply before Alex grabbed his hand and led him towards the bathroom. “Come on!” she giggled. She saw him look with puzzled interest at the collection of cuttings and photos on the floor. “Never mind all that. Now, DCI Hunt. Strip.”

 

 

Alex hopped into the bath, sinking down into the bubbles. The rosy peaks of her nipples floated teasingly at the surface of the water as she eyed Gene, pointing to each item of clothing, indicating which one was to come off next. He looked vaguely uncomfortable as, despite the forgiving glow of the candles, he was very conscious of his less-than-perfect physique. “Come on Alex,” he growled, just wishing they could go to bed together.

 

 

She pouted up at him, her eyes dark. “MmMMM,” she said, lifting one long and perfect leg out of the water and hanging it over the side of the bath. The other leg slowly followed, water and bubbles slipping from her shapely limb as her foot came to rest on the baths’ other edge. Gene swallowed hard, watching her as she ran a hand down between her legs, resting a while under the water before she raised it to her mouth and placed one finger between her lips, tasting herself. Gene felt he had never been more turned on in his life. The remaining clothes flew from his body before he lowered himself into the water, between Alex’s legs, facing away from her as per her instruction. He leaned back against her: his head rested on her shoulder as her arms and legs wound around him… holding his body there close to hers she stroked and caressed him, coaxing him to orgasm in the warm scented water of the bath, kissing the back of his neck and whispering little declarations of desire in his ear. For a moment the world slipped away, the enormity and danger of the task ahead left her and everything was perfect.

 

 

Across town, Arthur Layton sat huddled in the squat of one of his former street dealers. His hair hung limp and damp, framing his pallid face, eyes screwed up as he listened in on the faint and crackling police radio transmissions. They were circling. They were out to get him – he had known it wouldn’t be long before Alex Drake set the dogs on him, just a matter of sitting and waiting. But now the time was coming to finish this. He spat on the floor with disgust, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He carefully placed 6 bullets into the chamber of his pistol, spinning the smooth mechanism round and round and speaking quietly to himself. “Time to make your phone ring, little Alex.”


	7. Trigger Finger

  
Author's notes: Gun shots ring out across the Thames, but who pulled the trigger?  


* * *

“Hmm, I think we should get out of the bath now maybe,” Alex smiled in Gene’s ear. She took hold of his hand and lifted it out of the water, inspecting his crinkled fingertips. The candle of the nearest edge of the bath had guttered and died and the only light in the room now came from a solitary flickering flame at the other end of the bath. It soon too would die.

 

 

“Mmmm…” Gene turned his face to Alex’s and kissed her mouth before he manoeuvred himself to his feet and grabbed a towel from the rail. Wrapping it around his waist, he turned and offered his hand to Alex, pulling her gently to her feet and then close to him. He handed her a towel and kissed her nose.

 

 

“I love you.” He said quietly. His face was deadly serious.

 

 

Alex said nothing, but she felt her heart swell. Her throat constricted with the temporary rise of joy, panic and sadness that washed over her. She wished for all the world she could return that love without complication.

 

 

“Come on,” she said, stepping out of the bath. She walked past him and through to the kitchen where she set about pouring two glasses of whisky. “A nightcap,” she smiled, nodding her head towards the bedroom.

 

 

They made fragile, beautiful love that night, each secretly knowing it would be for the last time.

 

 

Alex awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. She quickly glanced at the digital clock by the bedside – it had just gone 5 am. A panic rose in her - she knew phone calls at that early hour rarely heralded good news. Slipping from the bedcovers, she stepped through to the living room, wondering briefly how on Earth Gene had managed to sleep through the piercing ring. Shivering, she lifted the receiver to her ear.

 

 

“Hello?”

 

 

“Good mornin’ Alex Price,” a familiar menacing voice said.

 

 

Alex felt her blood pounding in her ears. Her legs gave way and she crumpled to the floor feeling sick to her stomach.

 

 

“How did you get this number?” she swallowed hard, vomit rising to the back of her throat.

 

 

“I don’t fink we need to concern ourselves with details now, do we?”

 

 

“What do you want?”

 

 

“A little bird told me you was lookin’ for me Alex. Well, ‘ere I am.”

 

 

Alex summoned up all her strength, although she certainly wasn’t feeling very brave. “I need to talk to you,” she croaked.

 

 

“My boat, one hour. I fink you can manage that.”

 

 

“OK.”

 

 

“Oh and Alex…” Layton paused. “You won’t need to bring your guardian angel.”

 

 

The other end of the line clicked dead. Alex sat in silence for a moment before she raced to the bathroom to throw up. When her stomach was empty, she leaned on the wash-hand basin, staring at the pale, drawn face opposite her in the mirror. In the bottom corner of the glass, she could just make out Molly’s face: this time, her silent expression was one of worry. “I’m coming home baby. Today,” Alex whispered.

 

 

Alex walked back through to the bedroom. She looked at Gene’s sleeping form, his back to her, safe in the blissful ignorance of slumber. “How can I say goodbye to you?” she said quietly to herself. Moving around the room quickly and silently, she pulled on her clothes and boots. She gazed at her surroundings for the last time: Luigi’s flat, her safe haven in 1981. She had grown to love its 80s décor, the flitting lights through the blinds and the sounds of the restaurant below. Alex paced the floor, fighting the fear in the pit of her stomach.

 

 

Making her way over to the chest of drawers, she gently opened the top one, rifling amongst the underwear there to find her gun. Her hands shaking, she opened the barrel, counted the bullets inside and then quietly pressed it closed – the cold metal burned her fingertips. This was her mission – to kill Layton. He was the cause of this - merely arresting him for his drug offences had failed to prevent him murdering her parents and shooting her in 2008. This was the only way. It was a huge risk; she knew that. If killing him didn’t end this nightmare, it would only end up in a murder charge here in 1981 and a prison sentence. She wondered if her subconscious could imagine such a thing.

 

 

A silent tear crept down Alex’s face, as she kneeled down beside the bed. She put her face close to Gene’s, not wanting to wake him, but needing to feel his warmth and breathe the scent of him for the last time. She needed his strength now: in some ways she realised she always had, from the moment she’d arrived. Very gently, she kissed his head, holding her lips to his hair. She couldn’t speak, but she hoped upon hope that somehow her love for him would find its way wordlessly into his consciousness.

 

 

She stood up and, tucking the gun neatly into the back of her jeans, wandered through the flat, stepping carelessly through the pile of papers and notes on the floor: none of it mattered anymore. Her heels clicked quietly on the stairs as she made her way out into the dewy chill air of the morning. Across the street, the green Triumph was parked outside the station: she slipped inside and started the engine. Pausing for a moment, she rested her head on the steering wheel before sneaking a final glance up at her window, knowing her lover slept on: not yet missing her.

 

 

“I’m coming Molly,” she said, as she sped determinedly off in the direction of the docklands.

 

 

London was a city just waking up as Layton stumbled, swearing and shivering through the winding factory streets of Southwark. Hunger gnawed at his insides. Being forced to spend months on the run from the law had taken its toll on him and now his reason was gone, desperate revenge coursed through him. He cursed the little girl for chasing the balloon out of the car. She was meant to die. I’ll fix this, he thought, I’ll fix her… nothing will stop me. He patted the gun concealed under his coat and slunk further on his way to where his boat was moored.

 

 

Spires and steeples ripped holes in the pendulous grey clouds blanketing the city. Slow pale sunlight was beginning to creep through and burn away the dewy mist. Alex stopped the car and looked over to where The Lady Di was tied up. Blue and white cordon tape closed off the end of the gangway and it looked like the police had given the barge a thorough search: the deck was devoid of any furniture or decoration. The boat looked abandoned and sad.

 

 

“Were are you, you pathetic worm?” Alex muttered to herself. She had her gun drawn and was walking cautiously towards the barge. She looked around her, expecting to see Layton any minute, but she was alone. Carefully, she slipped under the tape and moved down the gangway, the dark water below reflecting back the sound of her heels on the metal. When she got to the boat, she stepped slowly inside and disappeared from view. Layton watched her from the bank, his mouth twisted in grim determination. Taking a pair of sunglasses from his coat pocket, he put them on and silently followed the DI.

 

 

Alex felt sick with fear. The motion of the boat on the swelling river wasn’t helping: she swayed a little unsteadily, her mind besieged by flashbacks of the day she was shot: Layton’s time-ravaged face loomed enormous, turning into her father the clown, creeping and silent. Breathe, she told herself. Just keep breathing. She raised her gun in her right hand, and with her left gently turned the handle of the main cabin door – she pushed it open and went in, almost gagging on the dank and foetid air inside. Tables were upturned, ashtrays had spilled their contents on the carpet and empty bottles littered every available surface. The floor underfoot was sticky and the rotted remains of a party buffet played host to small clouds of flies that rose and hummed as Alex disturbed them. She held her nose and continued through to the berths: the bedclothes were in disarray and stained with spilled champagne and bodily fluids. Another wave of nausea rose in Alex’s throat as she remembered the ogling city boys, grabbing at her and waving their filthy lucre in her face after she had woken in 1981.

 

 

Suddenly, her eye caught a shadow moving across a mirror in the corner of the berth. She whipped her head round just in time to see a figure move past the small window near the roof. Gripping her gun, she made her way back out to the side of The Lady Di and, pressing her body out of sight, she slunk round to the main deck at the back of the boat. Her heart thumped against her ribcage as Layton came into view, his outline stark against the white sky. She raised the barrel of the gun in his direction, noticing with horror that her hand was shaking uncontrollably.

 

 

Layton heard the click of the safety catch and spun round; immediately his own gun flew into position. He eyed Alex down the barrel as she took small steps towards him.

 

 

“You won’t pull that trigger Alex,” he sneered. “I know too much.”

 

 

“You know nothing!” Alex spat.

 

 

“If you believed that, you would have shot me a long time ago.” Layton noticed her hand trembling. She was scared and she had nowhere to go. He pressed his advantage, tilting his head to one side and leering at her. “You was a pretty little girl, Alex. You turned into such a loose woman too… I understand your DCI would agree.” He gave a hollow laugh. “You’ve been so busy fucking ‘im you forgot why you’re ‘ere.”

 

 

Alex glared at him, her eyes narrow, hurt by the bright sun behind him. His image swam before her, the features on his face changing. He was young and old at the same time; the Layton she knew in the future appeared and then gave way to the more youthful version now standing there. She felt dizzy and struggled to keep a grip on her gun. Her finger twitched over the trigger.

 

 

“I’m going to kill you Arthur. What do you think about that?” Alex fought to regain control. She smiled sarcastically. “I am going to kill you and go home.”

 

 

Layton smirked again. “Oh, is that ‘ow you fink this works, DI Drake?” He took a step towards her, gun still pointed at her. “You run away from that car bomb, and then years later come back here to ruin me? You turn my life into a living hell, destroy my empire and everything I’ve worked for and then I just let you go? I don’t fink so…”

 

 

Alex looked at her reflection in Layton’s sunglasses: her two selves, her gun pointed at her own face. Her heart jumped as she took in the outline of the Millennium Dome, rising like a bloodless spectre behind her. She frantically tried to calm her breathing before she spoke slowly and deliberately, “You murdered my parents and then you tried to murder me. I can’t save them, but I’m not going to let you leave my daughter an orphan as well.”

 

 

“Your father killed himself… and your mother,” Layton sneered. “I was just the hired hand. Why didn’t you ask your loving godfather what really happened eh? Never wonder?”

 

 

“Shut up!” Alex yelled. Her hand was now steady, her mind focussed. “I’m getting out of here, you pathetic bastard. You lost. How does it feel?”

 

 

The brown water of the Thames flowed under the boat with alarming speed; the slap of each choppy wave against the hull was the only sound apart from the rumble of distant traffic in the city. Seagulls eyed the scene from the roof of a nearby warehouse.

 

 

Layton narrowed his eyes and cocked his gun. Alex did the same and the two stood there, weapons pointed squarely at one another, fingers preparing to squeeze triggers.

 

 

“I’m putting a stop to this once and for all,” they said in unison.

 

 

Gunshot rang out, clear and cold across the dock: the sound ricocheted in the warehouse, scaring the gulls into flight. They rose up into the air and flew across the river, their yells of displeasure fading as they disappeared from view.


	8. Static in the City

  
Author's notes: CID prepares for DI Drake's arrival, but who's making a departure?  


* * *

Luigi walked away from the front door of the flat, shaking his head and sighing. “Well, you are late again Signore Hunt, I try to wake you but you sleep like the dead!” he muttered to himself as he made his way down the stairs to his restaurant. Ten minutes of hammering on the door had failed to waken the DCI from his drunken stupor.

 

 

Inside the flat, Gene slowly came to and, eyes still closed, reached a hand across the bed expecting to meet the soft warmth of Alex’s body: to throw his arm around her and pull her close to him. He was disappointed to discover she wasn’t there. He turned over on his back and opened his eyes, carelessly shoving the sheets down to his waist. Lying there for a moment, he listened for sounds of her moving around the flat; the spray of the shower, or the clatter of breakfast from the kitchen. Silence. The only sound came from the occasional car in the road below.

 

 

Gene rubbed his face and sat up. His head ached. Eyes screwed up, he looked down at his own naked body and at his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. Immediately this struck him as odd, since he had a vague recollection of having undressed in the bathroom. He blinked in momentary confusion and then shrugged, swinging his legs out of the bed, retrieving his boxer shorts and putting them on.

 

 

“Bols?” he shouted through to the living room. No answer. Gene headed to the wardrobe, hoping there would be a clean shirt for him to wear. A quick look at the clock had made it clear he wouldn’t have time to go home to change, so it looked like he would have to just make do. “If I can find anything in amongst Bolly’s dressing up box that is,” he grumbled, half smiling. When he opened the wardrobe he was taken aback to discover just three or four shirts, on wire hangers, swaying slightly as he leaned against the doors. Gene whipped round and glanced at the room. No perfume on the bedside table. No bras spilling from the wicker linen basket. No curling tongs on the dresser.

 

 

He hurriedly pulled his trousers and boots on and walked into the living room. On the smoked glass coffee table sat a half-empty bottle of Scotch and one tumbler, an overflowing ashtray and a tattered copy of a girlie mag. No white leather jacket flung carelessly over the back of the settee, no pixie boots waiting for him to trip over. What the bloody ‘ell is going on? “Bolly!” he shouted again, silently praying she would appear from the kitchen.

 

 

But Gene Hunt was completely alone.

 

 

Across the road, there was a buzz in CID. Shaz was carefully arranging file trays and new pens on the spare desk in the outer office. “Ooh, d’y reckon e’s gonna be a looker?” she giggled in Chris’s direction. The young DC just swallowed nervously and tried to act casual. “Nah, I ‘eard e’s proper old. Hairy chap, that’s it yeah. Big beard.”

 

 

Ray sat at the desk opposite. He was on the phone, frowning. He put one hand over the receiver and hissed at his colleagues. “Will you two twonks bloody shut up!”

 

 

Shaz made a face behind Ray’s back and Chris laughed. His mirth was quickly stifled however when Ray slammed the phone down and got to his feet. “I don’t wanna ‘ear about ‘im, ok?”

 

 

Chris tried to make the peace. “I know yer disappointed not gettin’ the promotion an’ all Ray. You never know though, ‘e might turn out to be alright?”

 

 

“Or another sanctimonious twat like Tyler!”

 

 

Shaz opened up a brown padded envelope and carefully drew out a brushed steel nameplate “D.I. Drake”. She placed it deliberately on the desk facing Ray, who just scowled at her.

 

 

“Where the ‘ell’s the Guv?”

 

 

“I dunno,” Shaz replied. “There’s been no word from ‘im all morning. Why don’t you try ‘is radio?”

 

 

“If I want your advice I’ll ask fer it alright?” said Ray, reaching into the desk drawer for his radio set.

 

 

Gene sat down heavily on the sofa, taking a mouthful of coffee. Try as he might he could not make sense of it at all, Where the hell was Alex? He toyed with the idea that she might have simply got up early and gone to the station, but that didn’t explain why all her things were gone: in fact the flat looked like she’d never been there at all. He stared at the space on the floor where all the paper cuttings and photographs had been. Don’t panic. His rational brain was telling him it would all be okay, but he had a horrible churning feeling in his gut that she was gone forever.

 

 

He suddenly became aware of a crackling hissing sound coming from his coat, which was lying across the black leather chair in the corner. He raced over and snatched up his radio, pressing the button to speak. “Hello? Hello Bols?”

 

 

“Guv?” came Ray’s voice, intermittent and distorted. “Guv, where are yer? Are y’there? Guv?”

 

 

“Ray… RAY… I’m ‘ere. Hello? - Bloody useless thing – hello? Ray?”

 

 

“Guv, y’aright? Are ye comin’ in to work? Just, today’s the day the new...” The radio went dead.

 

 

“RAY?” Gene yelled.

 

 

Then a girl’s voice said, quite clearly, “You have to stop it. Stop.” It was a voice Gene recognised: Alex’s daughter.

 

 

“Molly!” Gene shouted frantically into the radio, “Is your mother…?”

 

 

“’Oo’s Molly?” came Ray’s voice again.

 

 

“Ray, listen to me, ‘as Alex been in the office today?”

 

 

“Alex? Alex Drake?” Ray sounded confused, “Well, obviously not, I mean, not yet…”

 

 

“Oh forget it!” Gene grunted, exasperated, “I’m comin’ over, ‘ang on.”

 

 

“Oh Guv, we’ve just ‘ad a call in. One of our motors ‘as been found abandoned down at the docklands. Trinity Buoy Wharf…” the radio cut out again.

 

 

“I’m on it!” Gene yelled, not caring if anyone heard him or not. He raced back through to the bedroom and flung on a white shirt. Striding towards the door, he picked up his coat and the radio: a determined look came over him. He had no idea what he was heading for, but he knew he had to stop it.

 

 

The Quattro was waiting for him outside Luigi’s. He leapt inside and sped off towards the East End. When he arrived at the wharf he immediately saw the abandoned Triumph. The door was locked but there was no sign of Alex. He raced down the white metal gangway towards Layton’s boat, his heart sinking. He was beside himself with fear that he had lost her. Bracing himself to find her dead, he climbed on board, making his way through the mess and the squalor to the rear deck. He looked for signs she had been there but there was nothing, and no sign of Layton. In his chest, his heart drummed a frantic rhythm: adrenaline coursed through his veins, making him feel suddenly sick. He leaned over the side of the barge, retching, tears of panic forming in his eyes.

 

 

“WHERE ARE YOU?” he yelled at the sky, his voice echoing across the water.

 

 

Think Gene, think. He tried desperately to make sense of the myriad of jumbled thoughts and images in his head. The present. The future. Did she go looking for Layton? She wanted him dead. He couldn’t bring himself to contemplate what might have happened if she’d found him - or worse, if he’d found her first. I have to do something, but what? How can I help you if I don’t know where you are? His own words haunted him, “I’m everywhere Bolly – I was needed and I was there.” But I couldn’t save you this time. Pictures flashed in his mind: the fireworks, the mobile phones, the wedding dress… Ray’s promotion.

 

 

Ray’s promotion! Ray was promoted to DI! Gene’s heart raced. She never turned up… she never came and the promotion went to him. The earlier conversation came back to him, when he’d asked the DS if Alex had been in the station... no wonder he sounded confused. It can’t happen like that… he thought, it can’t be me who hands it over. I need to be with Alex.

 

 

Gene ran back up the gangway and climbed into the Quattro. He picked up his radio to contact Ray back at the station, but before he was able to speak, he caught sight of Molly in the rear-view mirror. He jumped, trying to catch his breath. The little girl spoke. “Go to her. She needs you.”

 

 

Gene whipped round in his seat, but the car was empty. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “How? HOW?” he yelled in frustration.

 

 

He started the engine: the car radio blared to life. “Let’s all meet up in the year 2000, won’t it be strange when we’re all fully gro-o-own,” the singer sounded familiar. I’ve heard that song before. His police radio suddenly hissed... through the static came an unknown man’s voice.

 

 

“Charlie 7-5 to DI Drake… South Bank, outside Tate Modern. Gunman has taken a female hostage. Trojan Units are assigned. Over.”

 

 

Alex! Gene put his foot down and spun the car round: tyres screeching as he roared off along the river. He threw the car round corner after corner, making his way to the East India Dock Road. The engine screamed and leapt, Gene struggling to control it as he sped through the city streets. Other traffic came to a standstill: horns blaring, tyres squealing, angry fists appearing from drivers’ windows. The Quattro blazed a trail of red fire through the dull concrete grey of the industrial east end: the sky above turned a deep blue and strands of white slowly took the place of the ravaged dark clouds of the morning.

 

 

He didn’t see the motorcycle coming. The courier was taking a shortcut and slipped through the bollards of a lane meeting the main road. Gene was doing 65 and the bike appeared from nowhere: the last thing he saw was a white helmet as it hit his windscreen. The Quattro spun wildly off the road, mounting the pavement and coming to a standstill with a sickening crunch as it hit the bollards. The nearside front wheel lifted from the road and continued spinning as smoke plumed from under the bonnet. Sparks flew as the motorcycle skidded along the road without its rider, leaving green paint marks on the tarmac. Gene’s body lurched forward and everything went black.

 

 

Onlookers ran in panic: the sound of sirens echoed through lanes, railway arches and yards, but they were too late. One spark: leaking petrol pooled under the chassis: ignition. A tower of flame and black smoke dominated the skyline as shards of glass ripped through the air and drips of molten metal settled into cracks in the road. The Audi Quattro was gone.


	9. Welcome to Reality

  
Author's notes: Gene sees a familiar face and realises what he has to do.  


* * *

Pale yellow July sunlight filters slowly through unwashed windows. A man sits alone in an armchair, the remnants of a frugal breakfast on a tray beside him. He is not long up: unshaven and dressed in only a vest, belted trousers and slippers. The lines on his face tell the story of his younger days as a copper: a respected DCI. Traces of his once rugged handsomeness are still visible. A gold pendant on his chest glows in the sunlight as he pushes himself up from the chair and walks slowly through his hallway, past the phone that he knows will ring today. He stops to look in the oval mirror of a mahogany hallstand and two silvery-blue eyes look back at him, barely concealing a glint of anticipation. He runs a hand across the golden grey bristles on his chin and tells himself this will be the day. The day he gets the life he was meant to have.

 

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

 

He tried to open his eyes, but all he could see was white. He felt he couldn’t breathe, like someone was holding a giant pillow to his face. He tried to move, but something was holding him still. A shooting pain ran down his neck and his right shoulder, across his chest. A seatbelt? Two senses out of five confused him as he tried to figure out what was happening. Listen Gene. Traffic. The sound of another car horn pierced the air incessantly, but it was in the distance. Music. A man’s voice singing…

 

 

I still don't remember how this happened

 

 

I still don't get the wherefores and the whys

 

 

I look for sense but I get next to nothing

 

 

Hey boy, welcome to reality

 

 

Very slowly Gene Hunt pushed his body backwards, until his head rested on the seat behind. His neck ached and he was aware of the warm sticky sensation of blood running down his face. Gingerly, he opened his mouth and tasted the metallic sweet fluid as it ran between his lips. He opened his eyes, aware of very little but a crushing pain in his lungs as if all the air had been suddenly forced out and now every tiny little cavity was struggling to fill up again. Bright sunlight hindered his attempts to see where he was, but when he gradually adjusted he was able to make out a giant white inflatable cushion in front of him. A steering wheel was just visible below the bulbous shape: above it a wide expanse of glass, which miraculously was all still in place despite being in a million small pieces. A windscreen… I’m in the Quattro! he reasoned. But what the hell was this balloon thing? Whatever it was it had broken his bloody nose. And why on earth did he have his seatbelt on? The biker! Gene suddenly thought. I’d better see if ‘e’s alright.

 

 

He felt around with his fingers down his left side until he located the seatbelt clip, and carefully pushed the button down. With his right hand he dragged the belt across his body, wincing as the woven fibres moved through the cut they had already made in his neck. Leaning slowly forward, Gene pushed at the now deflated white balloon, moving the material out of the way and looking in bewilderment at the dashboard in front of him. This isn’t my motor. Sure, the four interlocking silver rings in the middle of the steering wheel looked familiar, but everything else was completely alien to him. In the middle of the dash sat a small silvery screen, out of which ran a white wire into the radio unit. The screen read “David Bowie - Reality (2003)”. What the ‘ell? ‘Ave I gone mad? Gene put a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes and trying to wipe away the blood now congealing around his nose and mouth.

 

 

With no small effort, he reached to the handle of the door and wrenched it towards him. The door swung wide as he kicked it hard and tumbled to the road on his hands and knees. The world was a strange and surreal place to Gene as he carefully got to his feet and looked around him. The air was clean, all sound distant and changed – the reek and clamour of heavy industry was gone and he was gazing up at a bright summer sky. A helicopter circled overhead, its blades chopping mercilessly at puffy white clouds. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered: their clothes and hair looked odd to him as they stood gaping at the scene, some apparently taking photographs with tiny silver cameras. He looked down in amazement at the black car he had just climbed from, its front end crushed and crumpled against the small white sports car he had collided with. There was no motorbike in sight.

 

 

As Gene approached the window of the other car, he caught sight of his reflection in the window, marvelling at his shorter hair, neat-collared white shirt and tailored black suit. His face was exactly the same save, of course, from the bloody stain below his nose and the beginnings of two rather impressive black eyes. He pulled open the door of the car and placed his fingers on the neck of the young woman behind the wheel. Her pulse was weak – but definitely there. Gene roared at the nearest bystander, “Well don’t just stand there y’ bloody Nancy! Go and phone fer an ambulance before she bloody karks it!” He stood there, gobsmacked as the young man felt in his pocket and brought out a tiny slim black box, swiftly punched three digits into it with his thumb and began talking to, what Gene assumed, was an ambulance operator.

 

 

Alex! Gene suddenly thought. Alex! I have to find her! As if in answer to his desperation he turned and saw, looming through the glass and steel of modern London, the familiar brick chimney of Bankside Power Station. The helicopter had crossed back across the river and now circled above the building, but Gene was unable to see what was happening. Just then, a police car squealed up behind him and a young constable leapt out, radio in hand. Thinking quickly, Gene reached inside his suit jacket and searched for his warrant card. God, please let it be ‘ere, he thought. His fingers closed around the slim leather wallet and pulled it out, flipping it open in the young officer’s face. “Sir,” the young man said straight away. He stood there for a moment, eyeing Gene expectantly, looking for instructions.

 

 

Although this world was unknown to him, Gene’s instincts told him that now was not the time to get involved in a friendly chat with a copper, so he turned on his heels and ran, not really knowing exactly where he was going as his feet carried him through streets and alleys, past offices and car parks and restaurants. He headed for the Thames.

 

 

As he approached the bank he stopped, feeling sick from running so hard and from the pains in his neck and face. He stared in amazement at the sunlight bouncing off each little wave on the water’s surface: before him stretched a long, silvery bridge of lustrous metal cables, shining panes of glass and a path of glittering steel. It was full of people coming towards him, some of them upset, in tears and comforting one another. He overheard a young woman seemingly speaking to no-one, but wearing an earpiece not unlike the ones he had seen in his visions.

 

 

She was half sobbing, “Oh God, Mum it was horrible. I was terrified. The way he was just waving that gun around.”

 

 

A pause while the person on the other end spoke.

 

 

“Yeah, and then this policewoman just walked right up to him.”

 

 

Another pause.

 

 

“Yes, right up to him, no gun or anything. But then this little girl appeared out of nowhere… Oh Mum…God, I thought he was gonna kill her.”

 

 

She was shaking as she spoke, one hand clutching her chest. “But then he just disappeared. Police don’t know where he went. The little girl was okay though I think.”

 

 

She carried on walking past Gene, whose heart was pounding in his chest: he could still taste blood in his mouth. It had to be Alex. It had to be. He remembered the day they had argued – he had found her at Bankside, sobbing at the water's edge, remembering what had happened there that day. All sense of logic and reason was gone as he tried to recall all the things she’d said to him; all the thoughts she’d shared with him; the events that had unfolded after she had arrived on Layton’s boat in 1981.

 

 

He was so engrossed in his thoughts as he stood there, that he almost didn’t notice a tall bearded man in his early fifties walking towards him with his arm around a young girl. Gene looked up at the child: the school uniform, the flyaway mousy brown hair and the birthmark on her cheek instantly recognisable. She didn’t give him a second look as she carried on laughing and chatting with the man. They were almost past him when Evan White suddenly caught his gaze. A moment of recognition - fear and disbelief burned on both sides.

 

 

“She’s with her godfather.” Alex’s words came back to him. Evan White! Gene thought, as more and more pieces of this nightmarish jigsaw fell into place. He was here that day: he was there when the Prices’ car was blown up - he was their daughter’s godfather too. Gene could have cursed himself for not realising before what now seemed so obvious to him.

 

 

She is Alex Price!

 

 

The throng of London buzzed around them, their heads alive with thoughts of work and home: their loved ones, and what was for dinner that night. On the other side of the river, armed response stood down and called off the search for Arthur Layton. Police vans filled up with officers heading home, tourists flocked into the museum and no-one gave a second thought to Detective Inspector Drake, who had simply got into her car and driven away.

 

 

Evan continued staring back at him as Molly skipped on ahead. His eyes bored into Gene’s as he silently mouthed one word.

 

 

“Run!”

 

 

_______________________________________________________

 

 

The man stands in his lonely kitchen and glances at the clock in the wall, taking a deep swig of whisky before placing the empty glass on the sink. He sighs - waiting. He leans forward and one strand of silvery blonde hair falls into his face as he listens for the phone.

 

 

When it eventually rings, he walks through the hallway and lifts the receiver to his ear.

 

 

“’Ello,” he says, almost wearily.

 

 

“Yeah, Layton”

 

 

“I know ‘oo it is. I don’t need to listen to what you ‘ave t’say.”

 

 

“Yeah, well you’re gonna ‘ave to listen, cause I’ve got a piece of your past, standing right ‘ere in front of me. Tim and Caroline Price’s daughter. An’ I’m gonna tell ‘er the truth… why her parents died.”

 

 

“You do what you think you ‘ave to, you scum. Jus’ see what ‘appens.”

 

 

“Well… that’s your choice.


	10. Goodbyes and Hellos

  
Author's notes: In 1981 the team says goodbye to Gene and Ray gets some news.  


* * *

In the weeks that followed the accident, Fenchurch East CID was a strange and unhappy place. The Guv’s office lay untouched; an empty whisky glass sat on his desk beside the toy Quattro, both slowly gathering dust. Darts remained wedged in the board, resigned to forever show DCI Gene Hunt’s final score, and his wastepaper bin crouched in the corner, harbouring evidence of misjudged wagers with the turf accountant.

 

 

Outside in the main office, the Detective Inspector’s desk remained silent and bare, unoccupied by the mysterious Alex Drake who, for reasons unknown, had never taken up his post.

 

 

Today however, there was a low hum of activity in the police station as the team prepared for the memorial service that was to be held later that day. With no remains found to bury, and the ongoing and lengthy inquest into the car crash, it had been impossible to have a proper funeral. Now, the Chief Super had given the whole of CID a half-day’s leave to attend a small memorial at the church nearby, with an almighty piss-up planned at Luigi’s later on.

 

 

Ray Carling sat at his desk, head in his hands, poring over a speech he had been trying to prepare for days. His heart was heavy and his brain ached as he scribbled and scored out line after line. How was he meant to sum up 13 years of working alongside the best copper Manchester had ever seen? Gene Hunt had been his mentor, his inspiration, his friend. Ray’s eyes stung as memories of their days taking down the scum of the north flashed through his mind. The days before Tyler had arrived on the scene: before they had all transferred to the Met. This was too hard. He glanced over at Shaz who was trying to help a struggling Chris with his black tie. They had each other at least.

 

 

Ray suddenly felt very alone.

 

 

Just then, the office door opened and Viv, the desk sergeant, appeared. He too was attending the service and it was strange for the others to see him wearing his hat for once. He nodded to Ray, letting him know the relief officers had arrived.

 

 

“Right then Chris, Shaz… time to go,” Ray said, manfully trying to stop his voice from cracking.

 

 

“'Kay boss,” the younger man replied. He looked round at the others who nodded solemnly in response.

 

___________________

 

 

 

Chris, Shaz and Viv squeezed into the back seat of an unmarked Rover SD1, while Ray took the passenger seat. He said nothing as the car moved off, just gazing out of the window and resting his cheek on his hand. Shaz looked at Chris, worried.

 

 

“D’y’ fink ‘es gonna be alright?” she whispered, taking the DC’s hand.

 

 

Chris swallowed, moved by the comfort this small gesture gave him. “’E still blames ‘imself,” he said quietly. “Reckons ‘e should’ve gone with the Guv that day. I’ve tried to tell ‘im, though, we’d just be going to a double memorial service if ‘e had.”

 

 

Shaz nodded, squeezing Chris’s hand tighter and stealing a glance at the back of Ray’s head. The car rumbled on slowly behind two police motorcycles, and followed by the rest of CID in a panda car.

 

 

In the musty quiet of the church, Ray shifted uncomfortably in the pew, dreading the moment he would have to stand and give the eulogy. He had replayed that day over and over in his mind: how he’d argued with Chris and Shaz about the new DI and the strange radio conversation he’d had with the Guv, letting him go off alone down to Trinity Buoy Wharf. They’d never even turned up any information on why the police car had been stolen and abandoned there. Ray cursed himself again. I should’ve gone with ‘im.

 

 

Suddenly, he felt a tugging on his arm. He turned to see Chris, his eyes swollen and red, urging him up to the pulpit. “The minister’s askin’ for you now boss…” He had never called Ray that before, but since the team had lost Gene, it was as though the young detective needed an authority figure and had looked to his friend to fulfil that role. It both comforted Ray and made him feel more detached at the same time.

 

 

He looked up to see the minister smiling kindly at him, his hand outstretched. “DS Carling? If you’d like to say a few words?”

 

 

Ray nodded silently and made his way to the front of the church, hearing only his own soft footfalls on the wooden floor. As he glanced from side to side, the faces of the small congregation swam together in a sea of sadness and anguish. His heart leapt in surprise when a face he recognised appeared near the front - a face he hadn’t seen in over 8 years. She looked uncertain, but time and distance and their shared grief wrote a tender expression on Ray’s face as their eyes met. Margaret Hunt returned the DS a small but reassuring smile as he turned to face the assembled mourners.

 

 

His voice wavered slightly as he began. “’Ow do you sum up a man like Gene Hunt? Words just don’t do ‘im justice… I mean… well, anyone who knew ‘im would know that.” He paused, struggling to maintain composure. “I’m not gonna stand ‘ere and tell you lot ‘ow to remember ‘im, he was bigger than all of us… all of this.” He gestured with his hand around the church and coughed, catching the eyes of the Superintendent and the Met Commander. “Some might ‘ave questioned his methods, but when it came to nailing scu-, I mean, uh, apprehending criminals, he were absolutely dedicated. To ‘is job and ‘is team.” He glanced at Chris. “Many of us ‘ere today owe ‘im our lives.” Ray’s voice began to shake, his shoulders soon followed but he carried on, “He were brave, and loyal, and true to ‘imself. ‘E never compromised, never let you down, always got the job done, no matter wha-“ his voice trailed off as his eyes filled with tears. The congregation stared in horror as the DS broke down, heavy sobs racking his body as he stumbled from the pulpit.

 

 

Shaz leapt from the pew instantly and took his arm, steadying him and helping him down the steps, looking pleadingly at Chris to help her.

 

 

“I need a smoke,” Ray muttered and headed for the door. Shaz and Chris exchanged glances, but sat down again, deciding it would be best to leave Ray alone with his thoughts, at least for now. He had his pride after all.

 

 

________________

 

 

 

“He’s outrageous, ‘e screams and 'e bawwwwwwls,” bellowed Chris, bowling drunkenly into Luigi and tipping half his pint over the beleaguered bar owner. He flung his arm over Luigi’s shoulder and carried on singing, “Jean Genie, let yourself go-o-o-ooo!” He swung round to face Ray, who was standing at the bar with a half empty bottle of whisky in front of him. The sergeant’s face was grim, but he mustered up a smile as Chris’s excitable mirth gave way to the tide of grief it had been holding back. “Gene Genie…. Let yourself…. Go…” he sobbed, punching Ray solidly on the shoulder before staggering off to the gents.

 

 

Ray glanced over at the rest of the team, Lewis and Poirot were half asleep in the corner, the others engaged in a card game and Shaz was flapping around Luigi, trying to make herself useful by helping him clean up the spilled beer.

 

 

Suddenly, Ray felt a tap on the back of his shoulder. He spun round, almost losing his balance, to see the Chief Super standing there with a solemn look on his face.

 

 

“Uhh… well, how was it?” he ventured.

 

 

Ray took a long drag on his cigarette, contemplating giving his superior officer a quick left hook, but realising with surprising sobriety that this would achieve nothing.

 

 

“Oh, it were uh… fine, yeah.”

 

 

The CS cast his eyes around the bar at the drunken rabble. “Look here DS Carling, I realise this is probably not the best time…”

 

 

Ray looked back at him warily.

 

 

“… But I rather need to have a chat with you, first thing tomorrow if possible. We have a new DCI starting on Monday…”

 

 

“Wha’?” Ray started.

 

 

“I know this will be hard for you, DS Carling, but the team needs a new leader and, well, there are some other organisational matters to be discussed before we can proceed.”

 

 

“Uhhh, okay.” Ray dropped his cigarette end on the floor and stood on it, not quite knowing what to say next. He picked up the whisky bottle. “Drink?” he offered.

 

 

“I don’t think so DS Carling.”

 

 

“Uh, course not, no…”

 

 

“So, my office first thing then. Good man.” With that, he gave a short smile and then turned and exited the restaurant leaving Ray alone at the bar.

 

 

“Oi Luigi!”

 

 

“You go now Mr Carling?”

 

 

Ray handed the barman two pound notes and sighed, nodding to where Shaz now sat consoling Chris in the corner. “Mek sure them two get a taxi home, okay?”

 

 

_________________

 

 

Three days later, CID stood assembled ready to welcome their new Detective Chief Inspector. Nobody knew much about Tom Fletcher, other than that he had a reputation for being a firm but fair copper, with modern methods and a very private private life.

 

 

The office had been cleared and polished to within an inch of its life. Only small reminders of its former DCI lingered – Ray had salvaged Gene’s certificates and commendations and put them on the wall in the main office, not far from where the dartboard now lived. No-one else knew, but he had also removed the picture of the Manc Lion from the office door and put it carefully in his own desk drawer.

 

 

Just then, everybody’s watch alarms signalled midday. The office doors opened and DCI Tom Fletcher strolled in. Casual but cautious, he smiled handsomely round the room before taking off his coat and flinging it over his arm. He nodded and extended a hand to Shaz first, much to the young WPC’s flattered surprise. “Tom Fletcher,” he twinkled. “Pleased to meet you… and you are?”

 

 

“Sharon Granger, but you can call me Shaz…or Shazza,” she giggled nervously.

 

 

Chris stepped forward, clearing his throat and holding out his hand. He was eager to make a good impression but had suddenly felt defensive at the way his girlfriend was eyeing up the new boss. “DC Chris Skelton, Sir.. er, I mean… Guv?” He glanced sideways at Ray.

 

 

“Chris, nice to meet you,” Fletcher said, shaking his hand. He made his way around the rest of the room greeting his new team, before he finally turned to Ray.

 

 

Fletcher cleared his throat and took Ray’s hand. “And you,” he beamed,” Must be my new Detective Inspector! Congratulations, I believe, are in order, yes?”

 

 

“Uh, yeah, s’right,” mumbled Ray, his insides churning as he fought with his grief, pride and guilt all at the same time.

 

 

Chris and Shaz gaped at one another and then ran forward to Ray, engulfing him in slaps on the back and congratulatory hugs respectively.

 

 

“Well done mate, well done!” said Chris, almost choked up.

 

 

“Yeah, er, well I found out on Friday – that meeting with the Chief Super.”

 

 

“Fab!” breathed Shaz.

 

 

“Well, we’ll never know why that Alex Drake bloke never showed up, but I for one would like to thank ‘im!” Ray smiled eventually.

 

 

“So, gentlemen … and lady…” announced Tom, clapping his hands together with gusto. “I think this deserves a celebratory tipple, don’t you?”

 

 

“S’gonna have to wait Guv,” said Viv, suddenly popping his head round the door. “Just had a call in from a snout, says he’s got information on your drugs case – uh, DCI Hunt’s drugs case – some kind of boat party going on down at Trinity Buoy Wharf. Reckons you should get down there straight away.”


	11. Good morning, imaginary constructs

  
Author's notes: Sooooo... back to 2008 now, and yes, still on the angsty side! But fear not, I have a suspicion there could be fluff on the way soon.

 

Thanks again to my beta Handymelon, and to YOU: for reading and for your encouraging reviews!  


* * *

Gunshot. Echo. Silence.

 

 

Alex Drake watches as the bullet slices the air, rushing towards her with menacing indifference. Images race through her mind.

 

 

Stop. Fast-forward. Rewind.

 

 

A red balloon floats away past an iron railing, the blue sky fills her eyes and somewhere in the distance she hears her mother’s voice, “Leave it, we have a train to catch!” I have to get my balloon back, Alex thinks. Laughter. Sickening laughter echoes all around her. Molly! Where’s Molly? Alex panics. Breathe, breathe. Her father’s eyes smile at her in the rear-view mirror, but she is distracted by a man walking past the car. “We’ll blow out the candles together okay?” Alex hears herself call. The man’s face looms closer: he is shivering and pale; sick looking. Cold… so cold… Then a figure appears, Pierrot’s face, arms outstretched, beckoning kindly to her. NO! NO! Stay away! The noise gets louder: moving water, moving metal, voices and music. I’m happy, hope you’re happy too.

 

 

A sudden, white-hot searing burst of pain – one shot of light.

 

 

And blackness.

 

 

*****

 

 

Gunshot. Muffled by the hull of the barge, but gunshot nonetheless.

 

 

“NO!” Gene stormed down the rusting white gangplank, his lungs bursting in his chest. Dreading what he was going to find, he sped round the corner onto the deck, drawing his gun in readiness. He looked at it in his hand, amazed to discover that even in this alien world, the weapon was familiar: it was his own pistol, the one Harry Althway had presented him with all those years ago at GMP. Gene gripped it tightly and raced down the barge, his heart in his mouth.

 

 

A figure stood facing him in the semi darkness, a tangled mane of lank silvery hair framed a gaunt face, its pallor enhanced by a deep pink scar across the left cheek. One arm hung limply at his side, gun still in hand. Gene’s throat constricted at the sight that lay between them: a woman’s body, lying crumpled in a heap of blankets on the floor. She was different, her hair, her clothes… but that beautiful face, oh, that beautiful peaceful face.

 

 

In that split second he had raised his gun, watching his own arm, as if in slow motion, levelling the barrel at Arthur Layton. A muscle in his jaw tensed: he felt his finger slowly squeeze the trigger. The noise was deafening as the bullet left its chamber, bringing time back to full speed when it hit its target. Layton dropped like a dead weight to the floor, a pool of dark red spreading rapidly around him.

 

 

Gene crashed to his knees, his breath coming in fits as he gathered Alex’s limp body up in his arms. Blood stained his hands as he cradled her head; it was coming from a shallow wound alongside her left ear, so he fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and held it firmly in place. “Alex!... Alex!” he spoke in her ear, touching her skin lightly with his lips. He was beside himself, kneeling with the weight of her body against him, her warmth slipping away. Bloody miles away from a phone. “Alex! Alex, my beautiful girl… don’t leave me…”

 

 

Suddenly he remembered the young man back at his crash scene, with the portable phone. Gene closed his eyes and a prayer played on his lips as he rummaged inside his jacket. His fingers closed around a small but heavy plastic object. He pulled the mobile out and, supporting Alex with one arm, pressed 999 with his thumb and hoped for the best.

 

 

“Hello caller, which service please?”

 

 

“Hello?” Gene yelled, not really knowing whereabouts he was meant to be speaking. “Hello, this is Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt, I need an ambulance URGENTLY, d’y’ hear me? NOW, down at Trinity. I need plod down ‘ere too.”

 

 

“OK, calm down sir, I just need to take a few details from you.”

 

 

“Calm down? WHAT? Look love, jus’ send them down NOW. SHE’S DYIN’ ‘ERE fer Chrissake!”

 

 

“Sir, I need to give the paramedics some details: who is injured and what is the nature of the injury?”

 

 

Para-whats? Gene swore under his breath, looking over where Arthur Layton’s body lay motionless on the rusted metal floor. Forget that bastard. He spoke into the phone again. “She’s.. her name’s Drake. Detective Inspector Alex Drake. Single gun shot to the side of ‘er head. She’s unconscious but still breathing.” He looked, through stinging tears, to the shallow and sporadic rise and fall of Alex’s chest. He squeezed her hand, her fragile bones tangled in his. “JUS’ GET ‘ERE NOW!”

 

 

“They’re on their way sir, stay on the line please.”

 

 

But Gene had already dropped the phone on the floor at his side and was lifting Alex in his arms. Her head flopped against his chest as he carried her carefully out into the daylight with the blood soaked handkerchief plastered to her head. Seconds later, he heard sirens. He stumbled slowly up the gangway to be met by a man and a woman in green overalls carrying a plastic board between them. Several police officers followed closely behind. “Layton’s in there,” Gene gestured with his head, still holding Alex tightly.

 

 

“Sir, you have to let us take over now,” the first paramedic gestured to Gene to lower Alex’s body onto the board where he and his colleague worked quickly to get an oxygen mask on her face and a bloodline into her arm. They steadied her head and neck with a support before wrapping her in a blanket and lifting her efficiently up and towards the ambulance.

 

 

“I’m comin’ with you!” Gene called, but as he stepped forward a hand closed on his elbow. He spun round to find a uniformed officer with a grim expression on his face. “I’m afraid you’ll need to come with us sir,” he said.

 

 

“Not bloody likely. You can call me in for statement later. I’m not leavin’ her!”

 

 

“Sir, please do not make this harder for yourself. You need to come down to the station and answer a few questions.”

 

 

“I KNOW!” bellowed Gene. “And I will – after I’ve made sure she’s okay!”

 

 

He looked over the shoulder of the copper to see a plain-clothes detective walking back up the gangway from the barge. He was slim, clean-shaven and looked about 12.

 

 

“’Oo are you? What’s your name and rank?” Gene demanded.

 

 

“Harper, Sir,” the young man replied. “Detective Inspector.”

 

 

Christ, ‘es barely out of nappies. “Well “DI Harper,” Gene found to his own surprise that he gestured quotation marks around the DI’s name. “I outrank you and I say I’m going in that ambulance.” He glanced round in panic as he heard the doors close and the engine start. “Jus’ you busy yourself getting down there and arresting Arthur Layton. If the bastard’s not already dead that is.”

 

 

“Arthur Layton?” Harper asked, nodding at the uniformed copper who immediately got onto his radio.

 

 

“YES!” Gene roared, over the sound of the ambulance moving off, the siren wailing a sinister lament as it did so. Alex!

 

 

“There’s nobody down there, DCI Hunt. No trace of anyone else, apart from you and DI Drake. Which, as I am sure you will understand, would make you our prime suspect. Attempted murder, I’d say. If she survives, that is.”

 

 

“WHAT???” Gene yelled in disbelief. Suddenly, rage overtook him and he grabbed hold of DI Harper’s lapels, shoving him against a nearby police car with a sickening thud. “Look, you jumped up, nancy-arsed, snot-nosed, fairy boy, you cannot seriously be tellin’ me you think I shot ‘er. Why the ‘ell would I ‘ave phoned fer an ambulance, not to mention you lot of useless twats, if I wanted ‘er dead? And WHY,” he paused here to knee DI Harper in the stomach, “Would I even shoot ‘er in the first place? She’s my… my…” he searched desperately for the word. Girlfriend? Lover? “…you stupid bastard!” He let go of Harper’s jacket, letting him fall to the ground, winded and clutching his stomach.

 

 

In an instant, two uniformed officers had grabbed Gene, jerking his arms roughly behind his back and cuffing him. He flailed wildly, like a captured lion, roaring obscenities at the sky as he was dragged kicking into the back of the police car. He could still be heard shouting as the vehicle sped off towards Limehouse police station.

 

 

*****

 

 

Some hours later, Gene came to in a police cell. His head was thumping, he felt sick and his ribs hurt from the crash. The stark white light blinding him from above wasn’t helping either, as his poor broken mind tried to scramble together everything that had happened that day. He prised himself up into a sitting position on the bench and promptly vomited on the floor, cursing and clutching his head in his hands.

 

 

I wake up Luigi’s flat. Bolly’s gone. I find the car, no trace of ‘er, or anyone else. I plough me motor into some twat on a bike and then the next thing I come to with a bloody nose and no idea what the ‘ell’s ‘appened. I shoot Layton - obviously didn’t kill the bastard… and now what? ‘E’s fucked off an’ plod think I tried to murder Alex. If it even is Alex… I don’ know, I don’ know… God, Bols… please don’t be dead.

 

 

For possibly the first time in his entire life, Gene Hunt felt entirely lost.

 

 

*****

 

 

Distant muffled sounds of water. Light slowly bleeds into the images in Alex’s mind. I shot him… I shot Layton. Warmth. Everything feels slow, memories are like thick fog or a worn-out tape; the pictures just won’t come. A regular high-pitched beep becomes audible, accompanied by voices mumbling. A man’s face swims behind her closed eyelids. Dark blonde hair, piercing silvery blue eyes, a beautiful scarred face framed with dark sideburns: he looks angry. He always looks angry, Alex thinks fondly. She sees flashes. A red car: a young policewoman. These pictures are clearer. They feel real. She sees her own hand rise to caress the man’s face, as he lowers his mouth towards hers. She breathes, “Gene…” The light is brighter as her eyelids part slightly. Just a pale blue outline. A figure. A woman. Her face gradually comes into focus, but as Alex’s eyes adjust, she feels a shooting pain in the left side of her head. She groans. Voices become clearer. “She’s coming round… she’s conscious. Call Dr Cooke immediately.”

 

 

Alex took a breath through the oxygen mask on her face. She focussed her mind on Gene’s kiss as she fell into a warm, soft sleep. A sleep from which, this time, she was certain she’d wake.

 

 

*****

 

 

She knew not if it was memory, dream or desire. She didn’t care either. Logic and reason had no place between them as their skin touched, mouths meeting in a hungry kiss. It was new and familiar: his touch, his smell. He held her firmly to him as he moved deep inside her, his spine arched, hips rolling with hers as his lips roamed her neck. She cradled his face in her hands, breathing… look at me… their eyes met, staring into nothing, she wanted to look at him when he came: watch his pupils dilate and see her own face reflected there. She wanted this again and again. She felt him pulse within her. He told her he loved her and that he was lost without her. It seemed so long ago. “Come to me, please…. Gene…”

 

 

“Ms Drake… Ms Drake,” a woman’s voice broke Alex from her last thought. She carefully opened her eyes and gave them a moment to focus on the figure in front of her. “Ms Drake, I’m Doctor Cooke. Can you hear me? Don’t try to talk, just nod for now.”

 

 

Alex dipped her head slowly.

 

 

“Alex, I’m going to take this mask away from your face just now. Just relax and try to breathe normally, okay?”

 

 

Alex nodded again.

 

 

“Okay, you’re doing fine. Here, take a small sip of this water.”

 

 

Alex let the liquid sit in her mouth. It was lukewarm and tasted of metal. She pursed her lips and put up her hand. Enough.

 

 

“Alex, as I said before, I’m Dr Cooke. Just take your time okay… is there someone you want us to call? The nurses told me you’ve been asking for someone called Jean... is that your mother?”

 

 

Her mind was racing. “No,” she croaked, “My mother’s dead. Gene’s… Gene’s…” Not real, she thought. “Um, nobody. What year is this?”

 

 

Dr Cooke furrowed her brow. “Alex, it’s 2008. Do you know what happened to you?”

 

 

Alex knew all too well. She knew Layton had taken Molly hostage. She knew he had hidden in her car and made her drive to his boat where he had taunted her about her parents and then shot her in the head. She knew she had assimilated Sam Tyler’s subconscious fantasy world and fallen in love with a man who didn’t exist. Overcome with grief, a huge tear formed in her eye and rolled forlornly down her cheek before dropping onto the crisp white bed linen. When she trusted her voice, she finally spoke.

 

 

“Yes. I was shot. By a man named Arthur Layton. But… when did that happen?”

 

 

Dr Cooke rested her hand on top of Alex’s. “Just this morning Alex. Your surgeon, Mr Chakrabarti, will be along shortly to explain more to you, but you weren’t seriously injured. It was a relatively simple operation. It’s just gone 7 o’clock now,” she smiled. “You woke up just in time for Corrie. Oh look, here’s Mr Chakrabarti now. I’ll see you later.”

 

 

“Dr Cooke - could you please contact my daughter, Molly? She’s with her godfather Evan White.” Alex called after her. “He’s a lawyer, his number will be in my mobile.” My mobile, she thought wryly. I never really missed it in 1981.

 

 

Mr Chakarabarti turned out to be a short, balding and rather eccentric man. He had a terrible comb-over and a thick Calcutta accent. Not Welsh then. “So you came back to us then DI Drake,” he smiled “Although I have to say you were never really in very grave peril. Somebody was looking after you, eh?” He carried on, glancing at the notes in his hand. “The bullet, it seems, glanced the side of your temple. But you did lose a lot of blood and were quite unconscious for a long time. You will certainly have an interesting scar to show off at parties, ha ha! Oh, and I’m afraid we had to give you a rather interesting hairstyle on one side. All in a days work, eh! Anyway, your colleagues at the Met will no doubt wish to talk to you soon, but for now I’m recommending absolute rest! Chakrabarti's Orders! “

 

 

Alex forced a smile out, as the surgeon took her hand in his. His face was reassuring and kind. “Try not to worry DI Drake,” he beamed. "You and your baby are going to be just fine.”


	12. Christmas in mid-summer

It’s impossible… Alex had awoken in the middle of the night, questions swimming endlessly in her head without answer. The multicoloured glow of various monitors and machines punctuated the darkness in the ward. The small hours she thought to herself. She tried to sit up, but winced at the stabbing pain in her temple. Sighing, she turned over and pressed the button by the bedside for the nurse to come. To her surprise, it was Dr Cooke who arrived, smiling in the half-light as she pulled the curtain back.

 

 

“Hello Alex,” she said. “I was in the nurses’ station when I saw your bed light come on. Thought I’d pay you a personal visit.”

 

 

Alex smiled uneasily. “I’m in quite a bit of pain, actually. Woke up with it. I know you can’t give me much, what with the um, pregnancy and everything…” she trailed off.

 

 

Dr Cooke shook her head. “No, not really, I’m afraid. We only found out through a routine blood test, and that was already after you’d had anaesthetic and morphine. We certainly couldn’t risk anything else at this stage.”

 

 

Alex groaned.

 

 

“How about a cup of herbal tea then?” the doctor continued. “Might help you sleep at least?”

 

 

Dr Cooke returned five minutes later with a cup of camomile tea. She sat on the edge of the bed where Alex was now sitting up and looked at her, concerned.

 

 

“Can I ask… are you happy about your pregnancy Alex? You just seem… I don’t know. It’s just… now would be a good time to say, if you don’t want to…”

 

 

Taking a small sip of the tea, Alex laid her head back, resting the cup on her belly. She smiled at the doctor. “No, I am happy… I’m just… well, confused as to how it happened.”

 

 

“Well if you don’t know that by now!” Dr Cooke joked, “You’re beyond help!”

 

 

Alex rolled her eyes. “I mean I have no idea who the father is. Well, I do… but it’s impossible.”

 

 

Getting up to leave, Dr Cooke smiled at her patient. “In my experience, nothing is impossible Alex, no matter how unlikely it might seem. You try and sleep now eh?”

 

 

“Dr Cooke,” Alex said urgently, “Can you please do me a favour and get all the notes you can, from my accident, and my admittance here. The police report, the paramedics… I need to know everything.”

 

 

“I’ll do my best. I’m off duty in the morning, so I can try and sneak them to you before I go. I suppose since you are the police it can’t do any harm.”

 

 

Alex finished her tea and lay down again. She tried to clear her thoughts completely, to empty her head of all the questions cluttering it. When sleep finally claimed her, it first brought peace and then gently, silently opened a door in her mind.

 

 

*****

 

 

Across the city, Gene’s eyes closed. His hands clutched at the grey blanket covering him and his lips made tiny movements in the dark as pictures flitted through his sleeping head.

 

 

The two lovers’ bodies breathed and jerked in a simultaneous dance: eyes watching the same flickering movie as they were paid a visit by the ghost of a Christmas yet to come.

 

 

*****

 

 

Alex awoke and drew the covers up around her neck to keep out the chill winter air. She felt an arm snake around her waist, a hand travel across her stomach and slip inside her nightshirt to cup her breast. “Mmmmornin’ Bolly,” came a deep rumble against the back of her neck. She smiled.

 

 

“Good morning… brrr, cold morning. What time did you set the heating to come on at? It’s freezing in here.”

 

 

Gene snuggled closer against her back, murmuring into her hair. “Well you were the one who insisted we move to bloody Scotland. Anyway, never mind, I’ll soon warm you up.” He placed a kiss on the back of her neck and squeezed her breast, groaning as she wriggled backwards, her bottom against him.

 

 

“I wonder if Father Christmas has been?” she moaned lazily, as Gene’s mouth roamed her skin, his hands now pushing her nightshirt upwards.

 

 

“There’s only one man getting anywhere near my wife’s stockings Bolly - and that’s me!” Gene growled, easing his erection between her thighs. Alex let out a long breath, the heat growing in her stomach as she felt his teeth bite gently at her shoulder. Suddenly she had a feeling she was being watched. She glanced to the foot of the bed to see a pair of shiny bright blue eyes smiling up at her.

 

 

“Gene,” she whispered. “Stop… stop it… now!”

 

 

“Aw, but I’m…”

 

 

Gene opened his eyes and followed Alex’s gaze to where their son was now trying to climb onto the bottom of the bed, a Christmas stocking in one hand and a toy truck in the other.

 

 

“Christ,” he uttered under his breath, hurriedly pulling away from Alex and drawing his pyjamas up. He slid out from under the covers and took hold of the little boy, holding him to his bare chest in a loving hug. “Wow, Sammy, is that what Santa brought yer?” The boy beamed and giggled, waving the truck above his head. Gene carried on, “Well, let’s give mummy a kiss and then you can go an’ show Molly yer truck while we get dressed and then we’ll all go an’ see what else Santa brought eh?”

 

 

Alex sat up in the bed, kissing her son and watching contentedly as Gene carried him off towards the door. Her eyes lingered for a moment on his tented pyjama bottoms. Hmm, that’ll keep for later Mr Hunt, she smiled to herself as she slipped out of bed and pulled her robe about her.

 

 

*****

 

 

The noise and bustle of breakfast being served on the ward woke Alex from her sleep. She blinked and sat up, her hand moving instinctively to her stomach. My son… she thought. Reaching under the crisp white pillows, she drew out manila folder, with a note pinned to the front. “I have no idea how these got here. V x”

 

 

With shaking hands, Alex opened the folder, and looked at the two files inside. One she recognised immediately as the preliminary police report. She pushed it underneath and glanced through the medical file, scanning words like, ‘9mm’ ‘cranial’ and ‘blood loss’ through to the blood test results. Negative, of course, for all the usual suspects, but beside the hCG test was a figure Alex could make no sense of, with the words ‘early pregnancy’ scrawled underneath. The ink seemed to rise off the page and slap her in the face. Think, think….

 

 

She slowly opened the police report, her heart pounding. The handwriting on the page was barely legible, but knowing a few facts herself made it easier to fathom out. No mention of Arthur Layton, or the earlier hostage incident. Christ, don’t they put two and two together? She read further down.

 

 

Arresting Officer: Detective Inspector Martin Harper

 

 

Suspect: Detective Chief Inspector Ge…

 

 

Alex’s stomach lurched as adrenaline flooded her veins. The files fell on the bed. He’s alive. He’s real. He was there.

 

 

*****

 

 

“Got somewhere more important you need to be Ms Drake, eh? I'm not happy about this but, well, we can’t make you stay now, can we? And besides we do need the bed, ha ha!” laughed Mr Chakrabarti as he signed Alex’s discharge sheet. “But do take great care Ms Drake, get plenty of rest and no excitement, yes? Is somebody coming to take you home?”

 

 

“Yes,” said Alex. “My, er, friend Evan is coming, with some clothes for me. He’ll be here any minute.”

 

 

Mr Chakrabarti extended his hand to Alex, who took it and shook it solemnly. He may have been old and balding and just a little eccentric, but his deep brown eyes shone with a youth Alex couldn’t quite understand. He turned to leave her, stopping just by the door of the ward. “It all happens for a reason Alex. Just trust that - and you will get what you need.” And with that, he was gone.

 

 

A short while later, Alex was climbing into the passenger seat of Evan’s car, still clutching the police report under her jacket. The hot summer day of London swam around her, so many people everywhere, and so many cars. So different to 1981. She glanced at Evan as he put his belt on and started the engine, carefully checking all the mirrors before pulling away gently. Such a contrast to Gene Hunt’s cavalier attitude behind the wheel. Would she ever tell him what had happened, what she knew? There was no way she could ever try and explain, even to herself. Can I ever forgive him? On the other hand, he had taken such good care of her, even through her rebellious teenage years and now; he was like a grandfather to Molly. Dependable, unexciting. He had learned his lesson it seemed.

 

 

The car swept through the baking streets; towers of steel and glass bearing down on Alex as she sat wordlessly in the passenger seat. Suddenly she spoke. “Evan. I need to go to…”

 

 

“I know,” Evan replied, not taking his eyes from the road. “We’re on our way to Limehouse police station now.”

 

 

“But…”

 

 

Evan glanced at her briefly and smiled. “We can’t let them send down the wrong man now, can we?”

 

 

*****

 

 

Gene sat up with a start. He threw the blanket on the floor and drew his hands down his now stubbled face, remembering. He had dreamed it was a Christmas morning, his time and surroundings unknown to him save for the warm familiarity of the woman in his arms. And then, all at once the events of yesterday were there and rage and panic coursed through him again. He leapt to his feet and pulled on his shirt. Naturally his tie had been confiscated, so he left two buttons undone and grabbed his suit jacket. He slammed his fist against the grey metal door and pressing his face to the tiny window yelled, “Open up this bloody door! NOW! OI!”

 

 

DI Harper appeared, sauntering down the corridor sporting a black eye and cut lip. The injuries looked somehow out of place on his lily-white, youthful face. He had a uniformed officer in tow - an old hand with lived-in face and an impressive beer gut. “Now, now, Mr Hunt." Harper said. "No need to get over excited. I’ve got good news, your lawyer’s on his way.” Harper gestured to the desk sergeant to open the door.

 

 

Gene walked out in to the corridor, putting his jacket on as he went. “Lawyer?” he asked, confused.

 

 

“Yes. Mr White. Don’t you know him? He rang first thing this morning to say he was representing you.”

 

 

Gene curled his lip and walked down the stairs to the main reception area, before being ushered into an interview room. Well these haven’t changed much he thought, noting, however, the rather more sophisticated sound recording equipment. DI Harper followed him in and took a seat at the far side of the table. In his hand was a thick and ancient-looking paper file.

 

 

The two officers sat there, staring at each other with little more than impatience and distain, while the sergeant stood by the door. Several minutes passed before there came a knock at the door. “Come in!” Harper called out.

 

 

The lawyer was barely in the room before Gene leapt to his feet, heart racing. “Evan!" he exclaimed. “’Ow is she? ‘Ow’s Alex?” The words fairly tumbled from his lips.

 

 

Evan smiled, “Why don’t you ask her yourself, Mr Hunt?” He stepped to one side.

 

 

And then she was there, shining like some supernatural light in the dull grey of the room. She looked pale, nervous; beautifully fragile like a torn-off piece of heaven. Different, but the same. Her hair, shaved at one side revealing a fresh wound, the rest long and straight. Gene drowned in the very sight of her and before he knew what had happened, he had her in his arms, holding her, touching her, pressing his face into the curve of her neck.

 

 

Alex could not dare to believe her eyes, as she walked in the doorway, he was all she could see. He seemed to dwarf everything in the room. His hair was shorter and his cheeks and chin rough with stubble. Piercing silver-blue eyes alighted on her, darkening with the pleasure of what they saw. With his shirt buttons undone and dark tailored suit jacket hanging open, he looked every inch the raffish rogue: tall and strong and achingly handsome. In an instant she was in his arms, feeling with her own hands what she was unable to believe she could see.

 

 

They cradled each others faces in their hands, no longer aware of anything or anyone else in the room but their own selves. Finally, Alex found the strength to whisper, drawing a thumb across Gene’s lips as she did so, “You’re real… oh my God, you’re real…”

 

 

Gene lowered his mouth to her face, kissing her eyes, her forehead, her cheeks and finally her lips, holding them to his in the most tender caress she could ever have imagined. He touched a fingertip very gently to the scar on her temple and breathed, “You’re alive…”

 

 

“Thanks to you.”

 

 

There was a cough. “Er, if you don’t mind…” DI Harper was on his feet, gesturing to Gene and Alex to take a seat. “We do have an investigation to be getting on with.”

 

 

“I take it I’m no longer prime suspect then?” sneered Gene.

 

 

“Well, let’s just hear what DI Drake has to say shall we? Mr White here seems to think she’ll support your allegation that it was a Mr Arthur Layton who shot her.”

 

 

“You don’t sound sure?” Evan interjected.

 

 

“Well, let’s just say it all sounds a bit far-fetched. You said you’d shot a man on the barge, DCI Hunt, but there was nothing to be found. No body, no blood even…”

 

 

Alex suddenly spoke. “But the hostage situation earlier that day, at the Tate. Surely you have confirmed with your colleagues that that was Arthur Layton. And that he asked for me, specifically, when they cornered him?”

 

 

“We know that a man calling himself Arthur Layton was behind that, yes.”

 

 

Gene and Alex looked at one another, not understanding. “Are you trying to say that wasn’t him?” Gene demanded.

 

 

DI Harper folded his hands across the file on the table and looked directly at Alex. “What do you know about this Layton, exactly?”

 

 

Alex swallowed, unsure of what to say next. How much she could tell without giving too much away, or coming across as clinically insane? “Well, not that much as it happens. I know he used to sell drugs… bit of money laundering. DCI Hunt could probably tell you more…”

 

 

Harper narrowed his eyes. “And how’s that then?”

 

 

Shit, Gene thought. “I, er, did a bit of research a while back for another case. ‘E was a police informant for a while. ‘Ad a vice ring though, with a junk shop to wash the cash… drugs mostly. This was in the, er, the late 70s, I believe.” He coughed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, taking Alex’s hand in his own under the table.

 

 

“Look, DI Harper, are you going to charge my client or not? Because if not, I think he and DI Drake would like to be getting home now. DI Drake particularly, needs plenty of rest at the moment, so you can ask her for a statement now and then she can leave, yes?” Evan was growing impatient with Harper and it was evident in the tone of his voice.

 

 

DI Harper sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well…” he drawled. “The ballistics report on the fragments recovered from DI Drake yesterday will be with us shortly. If they don’t match your gun, Mr Hunt, then that combined with DI Drake’s statement will mean we’ll have no possible reason to continue holding you here. But,” he continued. “It certainly wasn’t Arthur Layton. At least not the Arthur Layton you described.”

 

 

Gene shot a glance at Evan, who looked at Alex. Then both of them looked back at Gene, who shrugged his shoulders. They all fixed questioningly on DI Harper.

 

 

“You see, DCI Hunt, I did a bit of research myself. This is Arthur Layton’s criminal record. Every collar, every caution, every charge, every stretch. From nicking cars at the age of 15, right up to his death.”

 

 

“His death?” gaped Alex and Gene in unison.

 

 

“Read for yourself,” said DI Harper, pushing the file across the desk. “Your Arthur Layton was shot dead, by the police, in a drugs bust. July 1981.”

 

 

“But… but…” Alex suddenly felt nauseous and dizzy. She grasped Gene’s hand tighter.

 

 

“’Oo shot ‘im?” Gene asked, somehow dreading the answer.

 

 

“A Detective Inspector Ray Carling.”

 

 

“Detective Inspector…?” Alex whispered.

 

 

Gene swallowed, bile rising at the back of his throat. “And, uh… ‘oo signed it off? ‘Oo was the DCI?” It can’t ‘ave been me, it can’t ‘ave been me.

 

 

“Tom Fletcher.”


End file.
